✧ayumi✧

“It’s okay,” you wave it off before kneeling to give Nanako a proper hug. Lightly, Mimiko weasels her way in. “Did you two bring a lunch, today?

The question is superfluous—of course, they did. Mimiko is allergic to most things, and it’s a much safer play to simply bring food from home. But, if you forget to remind them immediately, they’ll forget to give it to you, and you’ll forget to remind them once the chaos of class starts. It’s an endless cycle of forgetting.

Nanako nods vehemently, digging into her themed backpack for two modern bento boxes, and hands them over with chubby fingers. “Yep! Papa made it!”

You smile and nod, getting to your feet to refrigerate them. With knees popping and aching on your way up, you wonder how long you’ll have until you feel truly, properly old. Mr. Getō lingers in the doorway, pays a swooning mother no mind as she unleashes her feral child in the room, and you find an excuse for small talk, because you can.

“What’d you make them?” You’re digging into the mini-fridge now, the one by the front door, and place their lunch boxes in the spot you always put them. Lower level, to the right. Mr. Getō shrugs in his suit like he doesn’t have somewhere to be.

“Just leftovers,” he says. You stand to your feet, brushing the apron off. “Tako sausage and omurice.”

“Awh, I love tako sausage,” you gush, and eye the room as it slowly begins to fill. Single mothers whisper behind your back. You know, becase your hackles raise. “I don’t know why, but sausage always tastes better squid-ified.”

Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “…Squid-ified.”

“Yeah,” you nod away the stark reminder of exactly why you’re not this man’s type. He seems like such a no nonsense guy, and here you are, yapping.

“Well. If I knew that, I would’ve brought you some,” he offers with a kind smile, and your knees buckle. Just a little.

“Bah,” you wave the platitude away. “I’m an adult. If I really want tako sausage that bad, I can make it.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what.”

“Make it.”

“Oh! No.” You snort, suppress a giggle, and breathe. “I’m lazy.”

Crossing his arms, Mr. Getō rests a shoulder against the door frame. “Says the woman taking care of twenty gremlins on a daily basis.”

“Hey, they may be gremlins, but they’re my gremlins,” you say, eyes scanning the room. Yūji Itadori gnaws on a jumbo block. You should probably take it from him before he hurts himself. Thankfully (unthankfully) Mr. Getō checks his watch, and realizes—

“Shit, I’m going to be late. I will, um, see you at pick up,” he pushes away from the wall, smile never failing. Class is going to begin soon, anyways. Before you can respond, though, he perks up with an afterthought. “Oh, and—if Nanako says anything else, please disregard it. It’s not…she has a fixation, right now.”

You don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.

“Um…okay?”

“Okay,” Mr. Getō exhales, wavering by the door for one more second. “See you at five?”

“Sounds good,” you smile, and avoid thinking about how it sounds like a promise. Lock the fuck in. You’re no better than any of the mothers that swoon under the smooth of his voice. And, you hate yourself for it, every single time.

Once Mr. Getō leaves, so do the rest of the parents—the mothers, lingering, hoping that he might give them a sliver of his day. Fools, you think, because they won’t get anything if it doesn’t concern Nanako or Mimiko.

You walk to the front of the room, taking Yūji’s block away from him on the way. Luckily, he’s not a crier.

“Okay, everyone! Quiet Coyote!”

“Papa’s crying again.”

“I know.”

“He’s lonely.”

“I know.”

Suguru Getō is such a good dad.

While this something you know, it doesn’t make your heart swell any less.

“See! He likes you, lots!” Nanako holds up the sticky note plastered to the interior of her lunch. You crouch to read, instead of taking the note and pulling it to your face.

have a good day at school! i love you both so much. please don’t give ms. y/n a hard time. (nanako)

And, while there’s no proof that ‘he likes you lots,’ you appreciate Nanako’s match making sentiment nonetheless. Mimiko eats quietly next to her. Eyeing the tako sausage in their bento boxes, your mouth waters. Just a little bit.

But, you brought a sandwich. God, adult food is so boring.

“Yes, your Dad is a very nice man,” you smile, and ruffle ginger hair. Nanako beams.

“Exactly! So you’ll marry him?”

“No, Nanako.”

Nanako whines at that, and even Mimiko seems a little disappointed. “What? Why not?”

You suppress a groan. How do you explain without alluding to adult concepts that run right over children’s heads.

“Because, that’s not how relationships work, Sweetie,” you sigh, and adjust your legs so your knees hurt less. “Both people need to be on board. It’s a partnership.”

Nanako frowns. “Pardnership?”

You hum and nod. “Yes. Like the buddy system—marriage is one big buddy system.”

“But,” her bottom lip warbles, and shit, fuck, “Papa wants a buddy.”

“And, he’ll get one,” you know he will, it just won’t be you. And, you’re fine with that, you barely know the man—he’s just nice to look at, and takes very good care of the only two angels on Earth. “But, he has to choose. You can’t choose for him.”

“But—”

“No buts, Nanako,” because, you really can’t have this conversation for much longer. “Eat your food before it gets cold, okay? Your Papa will find a buddy, soon.”

“But,” Nanako begins again, because she’s stubborn, and has never been a good listener unless she wants to be. “But, you’d be a good buddy—I want you to be his buddy.”

You sigh. Swallow. Pat Nanako on the head in hopes it’ll placate whatever is going through her little mind at the moment.

“Eat your food, Nanako.”

“Papa, why don’t we have a Mommy, yet?”

“Girls—you’re four years old. Papa need a little more time than that.”

“Why?”

“…Because.”

“That’s a bad reason!”

You’re a little lonely. You can admit that, at least.

It’s not easy—after wrangling 20 five year olds all day—to have the energy for much else but recuperation. You’ve gone on a few dates, during the summer when class is no longer an something to worry about. You make as much time as you can for friends, on the weekends, maybe once or twice a month, when you don’t have a laundry list of errands to run because you waited the whole week to do them. That doesn’t make your apartment feel any less empty, though.

Heating up the other half of your sandwich, you try to remember the last time you went on a second date. Your boyfriend from college, maybe? You both lived on opposite sides of the country, and it wasn’t long after graduation before everything fell apart. Most parents you meet are surprised that you don’t have kids of your own by now, but that’s not the case—the issue is that you have twenty of them, from eight to three.

(To five, if you count the after school program.)

The microwave beeps, and you take the sandwich out. It’s cold in the middle, you should’ve flipped it open, but you’re too tired to care. That’s been a reoccurring thing, lately—being tired. Being cold.

“But, you’d be a good buddy!”

Yeah. You wouldn’t mind a buddy, either, Nanako.

“…What are you two doing?”

“Nothing, Papa!”

“Girls—thank you. Now, go to bed. I won’t ask again.”

“Okay, goodnight!”

Click.

“There’s an h in spaghetti, Nanako—”

Now. As stated, Mimiko is just as bad as her sister. Possibly worse—at least, Nanako is easy to say no to.

“My Papa is sad—and you can make him happy.”

Yeah. That’s what she starts with. What the fuck.

She holds out a homemade card with two hands, thumb and index pinching both sides until it wrinkles. From what you can see, there’s a pink glittering heart on the cover, with the names Miss Y/N and Papa above in crayon and stilted handwriting. This is a form of guilt tripping you’re severely unfamiliar with.

You take the card—because fuck, are you supposed to just make her stand there?—and open it because you can. Curiosity killed the cat.

THEESE WEKEND

PAPAS HOWSS FOR SPAHGETI

You snort. It takes you way too long to understand ‘howss’ is house.

“Mimiko,” you sigh, because, out of the two sisters, “you know I can’t. Your Papa has to choose his buddy, remember?”

She lets out an exhale, curling a lip of frustration, and wow, Mimiko, the fuck. “Yes, but—he’s not choosing one.”

“And, that’s okay,” you smile, pocketing the card before kneeling to her level. This is totally going on your fridge, your feelings surrounding the situation be damned. “Maybe, he doesn’t want a buddy right now.”

“Then—Then, he doesn’t get to cry about it!” She stomps a foot, and you want to say who’s crying about what, but keep it to yourself. “He won’t even see Uncle Gojō anymore. Just—come this weekend. Please.”

You sigh. You won’t, but, “I’ll think about it, Mimiko.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think—”

“Yes.”

“Did you know your daughters invited me to your house, this weekend?”

“I did not,” Mr. Getō huffs with levity, and you join him in watching the girls climb the monkey bars. It’s a few hours since school ended, and the afterschool program is in full effect. Luckily (unluckily), you’re in charge of that, too. It’s not like you have anything better to do.

You pull the card out from your apron, and wave the cover design in his face before opening it, and trying your best to stay true to the spelling. “Theese wekend…papa’s howss…for spahgeti.”

“Wow.” Mr. Getō runs a hand over his lower face, chucking before he asks, “May I see that?”

Gladly, you hand it over.

“This is what they were doing last night,” he realizes aloud. “I was wondering why there was glitter all over the floor.”

“Ah yes, she’s elusive,” you nod solemnly, remembering how many times that godforsaken powder followed you out the class and into the home. Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “Glitter, I mean.”

He snorts, nods, and passes the card back like he knew you wanted to keep it. The twins finally notice their Dad waiting, and come bounding over, covered in a level of sweat and grime that only a child could tolerate.

It’s immediate—the way Mr. Getō lights up.

He kneels down with open arms, each girl taking one, squeezing and pulling with no care for his pristine black suit. He doesn’t seem to care, either, as he cradles both of their heads and leaves twin kisses in his wake.

“How was school?”

“It was great! Did you know bears sleep for so long?!”

“Miss Y/N is coming to our house this weekend.”

You gawk, and look at Mimiko with absolute betrayal, because that’s not what you said. “I said, I’d think about it!”

Mr. Getō looks at you over his daughters head with a grin in his eyes.

“Is she, now?”

“Yep, I invited he—”

“We invited her!” Nanako adds loudly, lifting a hand in the air like she’s still in class. “But Mimiko delivered the letter because no one can say no to her!”

You knew it. You knew it, that wretch.

Mr. Getō laughs and stands, patting his daughters on the head on the way. You sigh but keep a good natured smile, knowing you will be screaming about this into a pillow later.

“You two are scary,” he says with a smile, then redirects it to you, and you’re…

“Sorry, about that,” you breathe, because this is embarrassing. Beyond, actually, because it’s like his girls have a radar for your exact type—their dad.

“No, I should be the one apologizing,” Mr. Getō steps forward. Mimiko forces a conversation out of Nanako, a sidebar, away enough to give you two privacy. Both of their eyes drift, though. “I told you—they have a fixation. They’ll get over it.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you wave his words away with both hands. “I get it. Plus, it’s endearing, when it’s not…”

“Embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” your fingers curl into the bottom of your apron. “But um, you should, like, totally put yourself out there more—not that, um, only if you want, but y’know, you could have anyone! So, uh, go for it!”

Mr. Getō snorts, and the sunset dances in his eyes and turns them molten. He’s staring at you too much. You should probably put the anxiously supportive thumbs up away. “And, that was supposed to be…encouraging.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah, it was an attempt. I—”

“What’s your answer?”

What.

“What?”

“Or,” Mr. Getō tilts his head, edits the sentence. “What would be your answer. If I, um, asked you. For…spahgeti.”

You snort at the pronunciation, too focused on the way he smells to notice the fact that Mimiko and Nanako’s conversation has come to a lull. Now, they’re watching in rapt attention.

“Uh, sure—yes,” you blink, pinch your arm just to make sure this isn’t a dream, and—nope. It’s still Thursday. You’re still at school. Covered in washable paint. “Yes, I would, um, I like spahgeti.”

He laughs a little, and you scrunch away a smile. You want to hear that, again.

“Six on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” you nod, you keep nodding, you need to stop nodding. “Yeah, sounds great.”

“No, you cannot cook the spaghetti yourselves.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not—Mimiko, how’d you learn how to turn on the stove?!”

“…Watching you.”

Maybe, you shouldn’t be going to a random man’s house. But, that random man is Mr. Getō, and he has daughters—so it’s not like he’s going to murder you, right?

Though, you’re more worried about accidentally murdering yourself on the way. You don’t notice the bright orange hand until after you’re honked at, a third of the way through the crosswalk.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Well. Fuck you, too.

The bottle of wine feels weird in your hands—too heavy and too cold, and the closer you get to your destination, the closer you get to the expensive side of town, the lump in your throat swells to a softball. You get comfortable with regret when you knock on his door thrice, hurting your knuckles in the process.

Christ, Mr. Getō lives here?

It doesn’t take long for him to open the door…ostensibly, not in a suit.

It’s strange seeing him outside of school. The issue is, outside of school, you dress the same. Apparently, Mr. Getō doesn’t wear suits all day, in the comfort of his own home, and that’s…weird.

(Not that you thought he would—but also, he totally seems like the type of guy who would.)

“Ah, hello! Thank you for coming.”

Today, he dons jeans and a button down shirt, both oversized enough to be comfortable, but nice enough to be…nice. His hair isn’t as neat as it typically is, but half-up nonetheless, with a stray hair working its way out the hair tie. There’s a streak of green marker on his chin, and you giggle at it, gesturing to your own.

“You’ve got…um…”

Mr. Getō slams a hand over his chin with a groan. “Marker?”

He steps out of the doorway to let you in, and you take the opportunity with a smile. “Looks like it—”

“Miss Y/N!”

Nanako and Mimiko come screaming down the hall and around the corner. You take them to the chest—well, the waist—as Mr. Getō disappears to, presumably, wash the green off his face.

“You came!” Nanako beams. You give her a small smile, because the little girl has no idea what you went through, internally, to drag yourself out of your apartment this evening.

“I did,” you nod, and give a very happy Mimiko a soft glare. She doesn’t even waver. They both guide you to a pleasantly placed table in the dining room, decorated with the works—roses and candles and actual porcelain plates. You don’t even think you own actual porcelain plates. Certainly not due to your own volition. The lighting is warm, and cozy, and could easily put you to sleep.

They sit you at the head, fussing over your hair, your outfit, and apparently, the way you sit.

“Papa has been working all day,” Mimiko says as Nanako tries to push your chair in, but can’t, because she’s five and you’re four times her size. “He wouldn’t let us help. Be nice to him.”

That or else hangs heavy in the air, and you gulp. This isn’t intimidating at all.

Before you start to regret your decision for the third time, Mr. Getō comes out of the kitchen while patting his hands dry with a reusable towel. Immediately, the girls scatter—sprinting down a seemingly endless hallway, and duck into the third room on the left. The door slams shut. Then, a series of giggles.

“…I’ve never seen them move so quickly,” Mr. Getō mutters, and you laugh quietly in agreement.

But, now, without Nanako or Mimiko to fill the void with insanity, you don’t know what to say. Silence lulls, and it’s loud.

“Me neither.”

This…is awkward.

Mr. Getō seems to feel it too, because immediately, he gets the ball rolling, and points to the kitchen. “So, dinner is ready but, um, I don’t know if you want me to make your plate, or if you want to make your own, or…”

“I can make it,” you insist, standing to your feet and grabbing the very nice, probably very expensive plate. You pray that you won’t drop it, somehow. “I wanna see what your kitchen looks like, anyway.”

Mr. Getō chuckles, light and good-natured. And, if you sway, it’s not your fault. “Why?”

You shrug, following him into through a doorway. “Tells you a lot about a person.”

Mr. Getō makes a sound, a hum of contemplative agreement. And, the kitchen is…aggressively domestic. This is about to be the worst first date of your life, you already know—not because it’s going to end poorly, but because you kind of want this man. And, you can’t tell yourself the last time you’ve been on a second date.

Two bowls fill the island—one with spaghetti (spahgeti), one with salad—and a plate of garlic bread. It smells heavenly and your mouth waters, completely forgetting your mission to judge this man into unattractiveness.

(Though, there’s nothing to judge. All it says is that he’s quite organized, and loves his daughters.)

You notice a familiar drawing pinned to the fridge—it’s a simple one, with three stick figures holding hands, the two on the ends much shorter than the one in the middle. They stand on a poorly crayoned field, and the names mimi, nana, and papa are written above their respective figures in black crayon, along with a date in the corner.

“They drew that the first day of class,” Mr. Getō reminisces, coming around the counter to get a better look. The date lines up—as does the fact that you struggled to place it. “Came home ranting about how they wanted Miss Y/N to be their mama.”

You snort, and ignore every feeling in your being—including the weight of the plate in your hands. It doesn’t drop, though. “Kids have no shame.”

“None. Especially mine.” Mr. Getō adds, moving past you to rummage through a cupboard. Then, offering, “Water? Also—help yourself.”

As your eyes follow his arm when he gestures to the counter, your stomach grumbles on cue. It’s not your fault you don’t know how to cook. You nod, grabbing the giant plastic spoon, and try your best to not seem greedy.

“Yes, please! This looks so good, Mr. Getō, I—”

“Suguru,” he corrects, and you nearly jump. He’s behind you, now, reaching for something, you don’t know, you’re not paying attention. Suguru, your brain goes. Suguru, Suguru, Suguru—

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever knew your first name,” you realize aloud, taking the last spoonful you’ll allow yourself. He drifts away to fill the glasses with water, and you exhale, finally being able to breathe. You move onto the salad.

“That’s it?” He asks and hands you a glass, eyeing your plate. You gulp. Did you fuck up, already?”

“Have some more.” And then, he’s grabbing another spoonful of spaghetti—one much fuller than any of the three you gave yourself. “Please—I made so much food.”

“Well, yeah,” you defend. “But, y’know, Nanako and Mimiko are gonna eat some, so—”

“And, they’re five. They eat this much,” Suguru takes the plate from you (you’ve lost your privileges, clearly) and fills the spoon again, lifting it in the air like it represents ‘this much.’ “It’s okay if you don’t finish it, I just—I want to make sure you get enough.”

He hands the plate back to you, not before adding two pieces of garlic bread, much heavier than you found it. It’s accompanied by a sheepish smile, one that makes it seem like he’s digging a grave for himself deeper than necessary. Your heart swells nonetheless. Then, you stomp on it, chanting stupid, stupid, stupid, because, if you think he isn’t doing this just to humor his daughters, you’d be just that. Stupid.

“Oh!” You remember, “I also brought wine—I don’t know if you’re, like, a wine guy, or not, but—”

“Sure,” Suguru shrugs as he starts to fill his own plate. You waver with your own by the threshold, because you don’t know what to do otherwise. “There are wine glasses on the table. Let’s pop it open.”

“Yes, now kiss! K-I-S-S-I-N—”

“Shhhh—they’re going to hear us!”

“Opa!”

You love opening a wine bottle. You love the pop of the cork, the resistance from the air—but, you let Suguru open it this time. Because, God forbid your elbow goes flying, or the cork, and you knock over one of his lovely candles, and set his very nice place on fire. Suguru scrunches his nose with a smile at your exclamation. You remember where you are, again.

“Sorry,” you recant, and Suguru just shakes his head, slowly filling your glass.

“No—I like it when you’re comfortable.”

With that, he passes the glass back and smiles, and you…ignore what he just said, actually. Because, you’re already a hop, skip, and a jump from falling for this man, and there is absolutely no point in doing that.

“What do you do for work?” You ask instead, because anything other than small talk would turn garbled. Suguru eyes lift from his own filling glass, to you, like it was a question he wasn’t expecting.

“Oh, um, I’m a Lit professor, actually.”

“Lit as in…literature, or as in lit-lit, like turnt lit?” You’re reaching, you doubt the word lit is anywhere in Suguru’s vocabulary unless he means literature, but you just need to double-check.

“As in literature,” he chuckles, swirling wine around the glass like a professional. “I, unfortunately, doubt any of my students would refer to me as lit.”

“You never know,” you shrug, taking a bite. After a swallow and a hum, you nod. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” he grins, and takes a sip of the wine. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting it, but, “so is this.”

You thank him in return, and silence comes back screaming. You hate to say it’s because you’re stuffing your face, and you try to do so as politely as possible, but you are, and it’s not your fault—the food is good, and you haven’t found time in between grading obscure drawings and letter identification tests to eat today.

Suguru props a chin on his hand and watches you eat, swirling his glass again—you start to wonder if that’s just something he does with his hands. It isn’t until you realize his fork is clean, food untouched, that you finally falter. With food in your cheeks, no less.

“…Are you not hungry?”

Suguru blinks himself to the present, and whatever look he wore dissipates into his usual. He picks the fork up, after that.

“Yes, sorry,” he huffs a laugh at himself, seemingly self-deprecating. “You’re cute, is all.”

You start choking—partially, because you had the bright idea to swallow when he opened his mouth. You try to wash it down with wine, but when it only prickles the itch, you choose water instead.

“Sorry, was that too forward?” He asks, with a smirk, which makes you think he doesn’t mean it. Not in the genuine way, at least. You wave it off, recovering and trying to breathe through the embarrassment of choking on a noodle like a child.

“No,” you croak, though you want to say yes, but not in a bad way. “No, I’m just…”

You’re just what? Floored? Flabbergasted? Fucking sweating beyond repair?

“Flattered,” you finish. You should probably slow down on the food before you give yourself a stomach ache, but most of it is already gone. Suguru smiles as he chews behind a hand.

“Good.”

You are going to scream. What the fuck is this.

Because, you’re quickly beginning to learn, Mr. Getō and Suguru are two very different people. And, while Mr. Getō is hot, yes, Suguru is…

“What do you think they’re doing, right now?” Suguru’s eyes dart to the hallway, and you snicker.

“Probably eavesdropping!” You yell the last word, only to hear tiny feet scatter. Shaking your head, you mutter, “nosy.”

Suguru snorts. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, I will,” you nod, unfortunately getting comfortable enough to yap. Well. There it goes—the second date. There it goes, sprinting out the door and on a flight to a different country, until the concept of a second date is no longer feasible. “Those two in class? Little rascals. Sometimes, I have to separate them.”

“Lucky,” Suguru laments with a chuckle. “Wish I could do that at home.”

You shrug, and take a sip of wine. “I’m complaining, but. They’re good kids. They’re smart, and they liven up the place. Even help other kids if they finish their work early—though, that’s mainly Mimiko…Nanako always finds something to do. You did good.”

“Thanks,” Suguru says, and suddenly, the burning candlelight is much more interesting than your face. “I get…worried, you know? That they don’t have a mom.”

“Sure, but,” and you look into the hallway again, wondering if the girls came back, how much of the conversation they can actually hear. “They’ve got you. And, from what I hear, you fill both roles spectacularly.”

Suguru shrugs. “I try.”

Suguru shrugs, and you overstep. Possibly. Maybe. “Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

“Oh,” he laughs, tight and bordering on bitter, with eyes trained tight on the plate before him. “I’m, um, technically not their dad. We’re related—cousins, but I’ve been taking care of them since they were babies. Their parents, uh, weren’t exactly up to the task.”

He keeps it vague but answers anyway. You take the hint, and don’t pry anymore. There’s a part of you that relaxes at that fact, the fact that there isn’t another woman, but you berate yourself for it immediately. It doesn’t seem like a good thought to have.

“Well—I think you’re the best dad they could ask for. This spahgeti? Fire.”

Suguru laughs, for what you realize, is technically the very first time—not around words or to hide behind, but an actual laugh, that rumbles from his belly outward with a smile that crowds his eyes. You want to hear it again, and again, and again, until you’re too dizzy, and have to get off the ride, or else.

He’s still smiling upon recovery. “You’re sweet.”

You frown, “but, I mean it!”

Suguru snorts, and looks back down to his plate. That smile doesn’t fade.

“I know.”

Dinner goes by faster than you want it to.

To stall, you offer to help with the dishes. Suguru doesn’t let you—but he does let you stay.

“—and then, she said God fucking shit.”

“No,” you gasp from your seat by the kitchen island. Suguru nods wisely.

“Oh, yes,” he hisses. You ignore the way his back works as he dries the last dish, opting to fiddle with a ring on your finger instead of drool, but, occasionally, lift to partake in the sinfully domestic sight. “I wish the walls weren’t so thin when I stub my toe, but.”

“But, they’re always listening,” you finish with a giggle, because, been there, done that. Suguru huffs in agreement.

“Yes,” Suguru laments, and after placing the dry dish into a cupboard, turns to you. “Top five most horrifying moments of my life when I heard her say it.”

“I can imagine. I…also stubbed my toe a while ago, said dammit, and we had a kid that wouldn’t stop saying it for weeks. Had to explain it to his parents and everything,” you sigh. The embarrassment from the whole situation comes back in full force as you tuck a head into your hands. He chuckles, placing the towel over the sink.

“Sounds like you have it worse than me.”

“Meh, only from 8-5,” you shrug, but he shakes his head.

“Exactly,” Suguru insists while resting a forearm on the island across from you. “And I have mine from 5-8—but only two kids, not twenty.”

“They wrangle each other, half the time,” you wave. “Quiet Coyote works wonders.”

“I’m sure it does,” Suguru chuckles, and stands up, pushing away from the counter. “Let me walk you out.”

Ah, yes. It’s that time, now, isn’t it?

Suguru walks you the few steps to the door, it not being too far from the kitchen. You’re about to say goodbye, maybe shake his hand or something else equally awkward—whatever people do after first dates when they don’t go horribly. But, the second you reach the foyer, little feet come bounding around the corner.

“You’re leaving already?”

“No, stay! We can have a sleepover!”

You giggle when Suguru sighs, getting down on a knee to turn to his daughters. “Girls—We’ve taken up enough of her time. Miss Y/N has a life outside of class, you know.”

Which, is false, but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. They whine and pout but Suguru has the last word, and after you hug them goodbye, he sends them to their rooms. Knowing them, they’re still lingering in the hallway, hiding behind a wall.

“Good to know they had fun, too,” you snort, and Suguru stands, fighting a smile and failing.

“Nosy little brats,” he mutters under his breath. Then, hollering over his shoulder, “Go to bed, you two!”

More shuffling feet, and you sigh. “They’re not going to bed.”

“Nope,” Suguru shakes his head in agreement. “Not at all.”

“Well, um, that’s my cue,” you say, stilted, and tightening the grip on your purse. “I should probably go before the trains stop running.”

“Oh! Yes,” Suguru says, like he forgot, and like he expected to linger with you in his doorway forever. “I had fun.”

“I did, too.”

Suguru makes no move to let you out—and you make no move to leave, because you don’t know how his front door works, whether you have to unlock before you exit, and would prefer to avoid embarrassing yourself after an genuinely decent night. Suguru scratches the back of his head.

“I was wondering, actually, if you’d like to go on a proper date,” he says it around a breath, one he was holding. “One without my daughters right around the corner.”

“We’re not listening!”

“…Like that,” he mutters, but you’re too busy trying to make sure your feet are firmly planted on his lovely wooden flooring, not floating in the air on cloud nine.

“Oh, as in,” you breathe, and promptly black out. Hopefully, you say something that makes enough sense. “Uh, yeah. Yep. Definitely down for that.”

“Okay, great,” he smiles, and it’s that smile again, the one you want to bottle and keep forever. “When are you available?”

“Oh, whenever,” you say, before you realize you should dial it back, dial it way back. “I mean—uh, preferably not school days, but I’m pretty free on the weekends.”

“How about a week from now? Next Saturday.”

Next Saturda—do you even have time to purge your closet by next Saturday?

“Sure, sounds good.”

“Ice cream, Papa!”

“No.”

“Pleaaaaase?”

“No.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“…Fine.”

“Really?!”

Monday comes, and you’re fucking terrified.

Because, Suguru is a guy straight out of a YA novel—and you don’t know whether he asked you out again to humor his kids, again (you’re in denial), or if a guy that you actually find physically and emotionally attractive wants to go on a date with you. Again.

But, you’re about to find out, because—

“Good Morning, Miss Y/N!”

You put on a brave face, the bravest face you can muster. Also, just your luck, you’re running out of laundry, and instead of doing it Saturday night like you usually do, you went to Suguru’s. Sunday, you were too busy panicking to be useful. So, yes, maybe you have on the ugliest cat sweater you own—but it was either that, or a cacti shirt.

“Good Morning, girls, how was your weekend?” You ask, before quickly realizing playing dumb was not the way to go.

“It was good! You made Papa so happy he took us to get ice cream the next day, and he never does that!” Nanako tries to whisper, but she’s a child with little control over her vocal chords, and you flinch.

“Oh, really?”

Mimiko nods in agreement—but, before she can respond, Suguru is quick in ushering them deeper into the room and, more importantly, away from you.

“They need to stop telling on me,” Suguru chuckles as he returns to usual perch by the doorway. “Like, now.”

You giggle. “That’s all kids ever do, Sug—I mean, Mr. Getō.”

You’re sweating. That was a close one.

“Suguru,” he corrects, looking at you with eyes bordering on a beg. “Please.”

“Well, Suguru,” you say, swallowing panic when another parent gives you an appalled look. “Uh, how was your weekend?”

“It was nice,” he nods, watching the room. “My daughters harassed this woman into going on a date with me. Luckily, I already had my eye on her.”

Oh, you think, and try to wrack your brain for who it could be. Definitely not you.

Your stuck, actually, literally frozen, despite the sweat forming at the small of your back. Suguru keeps talking. “Six, again? I’ll pick you up.”

And, because your brain is stupid, and, you don’t know, maybe he wants to go on a hike or something—

“Wait—am or pm?”

Suguru snorts. “Pm.”

Oh. That’s like, date-date time. Though, you suppose it was last time, but this is an actual date, not a ‘my daughters won’t quit unless we do this’ date.

“Sure, yeah. Totally—six is great.”

Suguru squeezes your hand before he leaves for the day. His harem of single moms glare like you killed the child support they get from their divorcees. And you…

You almost forget to put Nanako and Mimiko’s lunch boxes in the fridge. Almost.

"Long day," you sniffle, pawing at your soaked-bare face with shaky fingers. "Long few weeks, honestly. Everything's piling up, and I'm…" your voice cracks, and so does the dam holding back the second flood, too. "I'm sick of it. B-being overwhelmed. And feeling like shit."

You sob, making Suguru look more crestfallen by the second. "Oh, baby," he croons sympathetically as he finally shuts the door behind him and twists the lock. "I noticed that you'd been off lately and I'm sorry that I— ah, forget it. All I can do now is my best to help you. What can I do for you? What do you need?" He asks, willing to forgo it all for your sake.

Not wanting to throw yourself into a futile struggle past the lump in your throat, you just gesture for him to come near. That is all you have to do to convey what— no, who you need.

Through the thick onset of tears weeping past your lashes, you watch as he shakes off the day and moves towards you. His jacket gets carelessly whisked over the back of the couch, his keys clatter to the tabletop standing a few feet away from your knees. Suguru eases into the couch cushion next to you, claiming his rightful spot.

By the time he gets comfortable enough to receive you in all your broken-down glory— one elegant leg folding beneath him while his free foot, warmed by a sunflower-patterned sock, braces against the floor as he turns to face you— you’re weeping much more adamantly than you had been before. So much so that each mangled whine leaves your throat raw on the way out.

Which is wonderful and fantastic. And extra humiliating.

It’s not that the sight of Suguru incites misery— far from it, for he much rather inspires love and joy within you, really— but the simple fact that so much care lives in his soulfully sweet almond-shaped eyes that search yours is like a mug of hot chocolate when you need it most, dousing the cold loneliness from your body. It’s as if if Suguru studies you hard enough, long enough, he'll somehow find the exact location where your pain lives and tear it out with his bare hands.

Even if it destroys him in the process— especially if it destroys him in the process.

(And suddenly you're a few years younger again, watching an equally as young Suguru with somewhat shorter black hair offer you half of his sandwich the second you told him you hadn't eaten much that day. Watching him walk you home in the rain. Watching the two of you trying to navigate the terrifying realization that loving each other felt as natural as breathing yet still called for work, for time, for effort, for making the choice to love each other again and again. Watching him sacrifice pieces of himself for the people he loves without ever keeping score.

Years later, not much has changed.)

You barely startle when Suguru opens the space between you first. The familiar weight of his palm cups your cheek as he tucks the sleeve of his turtleneck over his thumb to use as tissue, kindly wiping your tears before they can dry and crack your skin.

His hand is so, so warm. That's the first thing your overwhelmed brain manages to register through the headache-inducing static. The second is the coaxing "Hey," that he murmurs to capture your attention. You barely want to look at him and allow him to see your pain that has transcended to the physical, but you do, despondently peering up from beneath your dribbling lashes.

Suguru's other hand comes up to cradle the opposite side of your face, trapping you not physically but emotionally— pinning you beneath the full force of Geto Suguru's affections, a weighted blanket over your shoulders when you need it most. His expression warps around the edges with the sadness that comes with witnessing the one you love most suffer, but his face quickly leaves your sight once he leans in and holds a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Come here, angel." The invitation is barely crooned in that soft-spoken tone he takes on when coaxing stray cats from their hidey-holes before he's already guiding you into him, pulling you across the couch and sideways onto his lap.

A second throatier sob leaves you in the same instant that you collapse into him with all the graceless desperation of a building finally giving up after suffering months of structural damage. You root for an anchor until you finally sandwich your face into his chest and fist his sleeves in a shaky grip, finding comfort in the darkness of his turtleneck that blankets you. His clothing carries faintly of lavender-scented laundry detergent, but what greets your nose most ardently is the scent of Suguru himself— sandalwood, jasmine, bergamot, home.

Tucked safely beneath his chin, you feel as though you've occupied this exact spot for so many years that your bodies have long since memorized the route to take you and Suguru here.

One large hand finds its home between your shoulder blades, the other delicately caressing the back of your head. The shudder that zips through you earns you a soothing carding of fingers through your hair that damn near melts you through the floor, the strands anxiety-tangled from how frantically you'd been tugging it at it before his arrival.

"That's it," Suguru whispers his sympathetic encouragement against the top of your head, "just let it out. I have you."

An immeasurable fondness bursts from the well in your chest and rushes like a river to fill every crevice of your body; your face, hands, stomach, and toes all warmly bubble over with it. Much like the deluge of fresh tears that follow, freely unleashed in the wake of his words.

You don’t know how long you end up bawling your eyes out for. You could have unknowingly sat there blubbering between strangled gasps and whimpers of pure defeat for literal hours, totally blind to the passage of time.

But what you do know is that Suguru keeps you flush to him through it all. Gently rocking you both back and forth, humming heartening yet undeniably heartbroken notes whenever your sniffles cease enough to hear him, petting over you with gentle hands to inspire comfort back into your being.

Suguru doesn't once rush you through the process. He just stays; his body a shelter not built from wood and stone but patience and devotion. Every slow stroke through your hair, untangling knots as he goes, works to smooth the sharpest edges off of your despair.

(He knows he cannot fix it all for you, much to the detriment of his heart. But he'll stand beneath the crushing weight with you anyway, hands braced against the sky itself if that's what it takes.)

Eventually, your cries weaken to raspy, squeaky little hiccups. The occassional tremor that rips clean through you whenever a fresh wave of overwhelm threatens to drag you beneath murky lonely waters again is tempered by Suguru's arms gently squeezing around you each time he notices you're seconds away from devolving back into your fit. Your puffy eyes burn something fierce from accidentally rubbing them raw against Suguru's turtleneck. (You pray it isn't drenched in snot.)

You feel as dehydrated as a traveler adrift in a baking desert when you resurface from his chest for some air, blinking heavy-lidded eyes against the warm light of the room. Suguru trickles his fingers down the knobs of your spine in a soothing swipe before gently pinching your chin between thumb and forefinger so he can pat your face dry once more. You give him a weak little smile to show you're grateful.

"There you are," he sweetly coos, brown eyes crinkling at the corners like sun rays spilling across the deepening horizon. "My pretty angel who smiles even when they're sad. I missed them."

The fact that Suguru looks relieved by something as inconsequential as the little upturn of your lips nearly triggers round three of your breakdown— with tears of joy this time rather than ones of despair.

“I hate my life,” you suddenly croak after a much-needed long, slow breath.

He gives an inquisitive blink, fox-like even in his indulgence. "Do you?"

You shake your head. "No, but saying it made me feel better.”

“Hardly,” Suguru replies somewhat dryly as though he read your mind to confirm that it didn’t work. He hugs you impossibly closer, his denim-clad thighs bunching beneath you as he shifts in place. "Do you feel a bit better now that you've cried it out?"

You lamely shrug before tucking your arms around his shoulders and resting your head back on his chest. You feel the vibration of his voice more than hear it, "I know it doesn't feel like it, but things'll get easier eventually. Okay? We'll figure it out together. Not right this second, because I can tell you're not in the mood, so I think the best plan for now is for me to make some dinner and get some food and water in you. You can either stay on the couch and I'll come get you when I'm done, or you can come sit at the counter with me and watch me cook. I can draw you a bath afterwards too, if you'd like. Whatever you want, baby."

Suguru knows you the way sailors know the sea and astronomers know the stars. So in tune with you as he is, he's aware that this isn't the time to try and work out solutions to your issues. His advice— even though it always comes from a place of drilled-in practicality and well-meaning intentions— can feel too much like another task to tackle when what you need right now is the simple comfort of Suguru himself.

"I'll join you in the kitchen. I don't wanna be alone right now," you near-shyly admit around the lump in your throat. "Can we just… stay here for a little longer, though?"

He turns to kiss the inside of your arm where it begins its loop around to the back of his neck, cheek nuzzling into your bicep as an aside— unable to help himself whenever you're in reach. Suguru looks for all the world like a man who has found his favorite place to be as he agrees, "Yeah, we can. Works for me. You just tell me when you're ready. I love you, sweetheart."

Ugh. He's really making it hard to stay dry-eyed. The most obvious sentiments don’t need to be said when you feel his boundless affection permeating his every action— even when he’s dead asleep because he must have you in his arms to doze through the night without once rising— but over the years, Suguru’s made it clear that they beg to be said anyways. That he will never not want to say I love you whenever he gets the chance to.

"I know," you sniffle.

Suguru cocks his head at you. "No," he says gently, "I don't think you do." Then, curling his lips into an impish pout, he flutters fine black lashes at you. "You didn't even say you love me back. I feel neglected… no, despised. You must think terribly of me."

A watery giggle wrests its way from your chest. "And you say I'm the dramatic needy one… I love you too, Suguru."

As his fingers resume lazily combing through your hair while you melt bonelessly into his summery warmth, you realize that this is enough. For tonight, you’ll forget the world and its worries and you'll allow Suguru to carry you off in parody of a knightly prince and his star-crossed beloved.

Judging by the way he peppers a few kisses across your forehead before beginning to murmur about anything and everything to try and lift your spirits, you believe Suguru might need this just as much as you do.

(I wish the world was kinder to you, Suguru thinks once you’re sufficiently softened and settled in his blanketing embrace like a sleepy kitten, utterly worn down by the gale winds of your emotions, and that you were kinder to yourself. I wish your past had been easier, too. But I hope I can make your future something to look forward to— your future where I will always, always take care of you.)

a/n: oh my baby sugu 😢🤕 so selfless so sweet so adoring… i just love writing hurt/comfort with suguru specifically more than words can describe, it’s very cathartic and fun to do :,) <3

i typically focus on longer oneshots, so following a requested prompt was a nice change of pace And this was SUCH a fun little writing exercise/warm-up for me!! hopefully i can do more drabbles like this when i have the time

he didn’t even look at you. not really. just grunted out a soft “hey” when you passed, voice low and rough like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, and disappeared into the dark crack of his doorway with a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, muscles flexing under golden skin and black ink.

you’ve been down so fucking bad ever since.

toji fushiguro.

your across-the-hall neighbor. father of one. age: probably mid to late thirties. height: unfair. attitude: uninterested.

the kind of man who walks around the building shirtless at night with a beer in hand, who leaves his door cracked open when he’s working out in the living room, who definitely has a “don’t talk to me” aura and the look of someone who’s been burned by love and never fully recovered from it.

and of course, of course, that’s exactly your type.

(but in your defense, it’s not like this came out of nowhere. you’ve always had a thing for older men. it’s the deep voice, the scars, the rough hands and emotional unavailability. it’s the way they look at you like they’ve lived five lives and none of them ended well. also? your dad never called you back after your high school graduation. so… connect the dots.)

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you were just supposed to move in.

fresh start. new city. small apartment, low rent, okay view. the listing said “quiet neighborhood” and you said “sure, whatever” because all you needed was a clean kitchen and decent lighting. you didn’t ask for a brooding, musclebound dilf living directly across the hall like some kind of cruel test of character.

but now?

you’ve memorized the exact time he leaves in the morning. you know which beer he drinks. you know the sound of his shower turning on. you’ve adjusted your hallway appearances to “casually hot girl next door” levels and tried every combination of crop top and pajama shorts known to man.

and the worst part?

he hasn’t made a single move. not one. no smirk. no side-eye. not even the classic “didn’t know girls like you lived around here” line. he’s just… normal. silent. borderline rude. polite only when necessary, otherwise acts like you barely exist.

you wave when you see him— he nods. you held the elevator door once and he told you, “don’t worry about it,” like he was doing you a favor by taking the stairs. you’ve walked past him in tight leggings, skimpy pajama shorts, cute little tank tops with no bra underneath, but still, nothing. not even a flicker of interest or a glance.

at first, you thought maybe he wasn’t into it. there could be a possibility he had a secret wife. or maybe he was, god forbid, celibate.

but then you caught him on the balcony one night. shirtless. sweaty. cigarette between his fingers, hair pushed back, staring off into the distance like he was thinking about his tragic backstory. and when you stepped out to water your plants, leaned just slightly over the railing in your tiniest shorts— his eyes dropped. slow, deliberate. right to your thighs. then back up to the skyline like nothing happened.

and that’s when you knew.

he’s not blind. he’s just resisting.

which brings you to now.

standing in front of his door like a fucking maniac, heart pounding like you’re about to ring the bell at the gates of horny hell, holding a suspiciously clean, never-before-touched envelope you pulled from the depths of your junk drawer ten minutes ago.

it’s addressed to his unit, obviously.

but it’s been in your apartment the entire time.

because you’re a liar.

and you’re going to get your neighbor’s attention if it kills you.

the door opens faster than you expect. no warning creak, no slow reveal— just a single click and then bam, it’s open, and there he is.

up close. full resolution. shirtless again. grey sweats again. taller than he looked in the hallway. and staring down at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re here to sell something or commit a crime.

his hair is messy— fresh out the shower messy, strands curling a little at the ends, pushed back and damp like he towel-dried and gave up halfway. a faint scratch trails down his collarbone. there’s a tattoo peeking from under his left pec. you are in fact not okay.

“…yeah?” he asks, voice still that same low, unbothered gravel. he sounds as though he was in the middle of something and you interrupted him.

you blink once. then twice. and hand him the envelope as if it’s some kind of peace offering.

“this was in my mailbox,” you say, a little too fast. “but it’s for your unit.”

he glances down, but doesn’t take it yet. his brow furrows.

“…you live in 402, right?”

your heart drops. you manage a nod. “yeah.”

he looks back at the envelope, then back at you, and cocks his head a little. “this says 404.”

“right,” you nod again, smiling like a liar. “which is your unit.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

toji squints slightly, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re stupid or suspicious. then— finally— he sighs, takes the envelope from your hand with two fingers, and mutters, “thanks.”

and then. then. a small voice behind him;

“who’s at the door?”

you peek past him instinctively—

and there he is. a kid. dark-haired, serious-looking, big eyes and bigger pout. tiny arms crossed over a cartoon t-shirt like he pays rent. he clocks you immediately, gaze traveling from your face to your outfit and back again, silently judging you in 4K.

toji looks over his shoulder. “just the neighbor. ‘gumi, go back inside.”

“you said we could watch something,” the kid says, very clearly not moving. very clearly invested.

“yeah, and i will,” toji sighs, the kind of sigh that sounds like he’s already used to negotiating with a tiny lawyer. “in a minute.”

you’re standing here braless, in a crop top and fluffy socks, trying to flirt with a dilf, and his child— his ten-year-old child— is right there in the background watching this all go down like it’s an episode of Love Is Blind: Divorce Court Edition.

you panic. you smile. you crouch slightly like a Girl Who Is Good With Kids™ and wave.

“hi! i’m your new neighbor.”

megumi blinks once. totally unimpressed. “i know.”

you die a little. “right..”

“you were singing in the stairwell yesterday,” he adds, like he’s filing a noise complaint.

toji exhales through his nose, clearly already tired. “alright,” he mutters, shifting his weight as if he’s trying to end this conversation with his entire body. “thanks for dropping this off.”

you panic again. you’re spiraling. this is not going to plan. you were supposed to be effortlessly hot, a little mysterious, maybe get invited in for a drink. instead you’re sweating profusely through your tank top, getting stared down by a ten-year-old and dismissed like some door-to-door scam.

abort mission. regroup.

you nod, stepping back quickly. “no problem! anytime.”

he doesn’t respond. just closes the door halfway and disappears, voice fading as he calls back to megumi— “pick a movie that isn’t garbage this time” —before the door clicks shut behind him.

silence.

the hallway feels colder now.

you stand there for a second. maybe two. then turn on your heel and march straight back to your apartment, locking the door behind you with a little more force than necessary and collapsing onto your couch with a dramatic, miserable groan.

okay. so maybe the whole fake-mail delivery thing was a bust. maybe you didn’t make the strongest first impression. maybe megumi’s gonna go to school on monday and tell his friends he saw a thirsty neighbor try to seduce his dad and fail in real time.

but you’re not giving up!

because toji fushiguro isn’t oblivious. he looked. you know he looked.

he’s just being difficult. reserved. nonchalant. you love that shit. it’s practically a challenge.

which brings you to:

❥ STEP 2 — establish neighborly rapport (aka: force more interactions)

you’ve already had contact. now it’s time for consistency! eye contact. hallway banter. the illusion of familiarity. you’re gonna bump into him enough that he has no choice but to acknowledge your existence— and then? then you’ll break him down. slowly. methodically. emotionally.

you have a plan.

a little awkward start isn’t gonna stop you. not when he looks like that with wet hair, lazy sweatpants, and his voice sounds like it could ruin your entire sense of self-worth with a single sentence.

step two starts tomorrow.

or tonight, depending on how bold you feel. your package is supposed to arrive soon— you could just happen to be outside when it gets delivered. or drop something near his door again. or, worst case scenario, start a small fire and see if he comes running.

you’re in too deep to turn back now.

besides, if megumi’s already seen you at your worst, there’s nowhere to go but up.

you start running into him a lot more.

not in a weird way. you’re not, like, stalking or anything. you’re just… situationally strategic.

like this morning— how coincidentally, you happened to take your trash out the exact moment he left for a run. and when he walked past you in those same criminally low-hanging sweatpants, headphones in, shirt clinging to his chest like it wanted you dead? yeah. totally natural timing.

you smiled. waved. gave a little “morning!”

he gave you a nod and kept jogging.

progress.

and yesterday? you timed your laundry schedule to line up with his, based purely on auditory research (aka: eavesdropping through the vents), and when he came down to switch out his load, you were already bent over the dryer in your tiny shorts like a good little trap.

he walked in. saw you. paused.

you straightened up way too fast and bumped your elbow, trying to look breezy while hiding the way your heart rate doubled on sight. “oh- hey! laundry day?”

toji looked at you. then at the dryer. then back at you. “…yeah.”

another awkward pause.

god, he’s so fucking impossible.

you gave him your brightest smile and added, “mine too! small world.”

“…we live in the same building,” he said, completely deadpan, before opening the washer and pulling out a fistful of dark clothes like you weren’t trying to orchestrate a meet-cute over tide pods. he moved with the exhausted efficiency of a man who hated small talk and suspected you might be trying to sell him essential oils.

you wanted to scream. you smiled instead.

“right,” you laughed, tapping your temple as if the realization just dawned on you. “duh. neighbors.”

he didn’t answer. just shoved his clothes into the dryer, grabbed his detergent, and left the room like it was a hostage negotiation and you were the threat. didn’t even look back. but you saw it.

the twitch in his jaw when you bent over again. the extra second of eye contact before he left. the little crack in his silence when you giggled at your own joke and his mouth twitched— barely, but it did. you’re starting to learn his tells.

like tonight— when you caught him coming back from the grocery store, arms full of bags, and offered to hold the elevator door open for him again.

“you don’t have to,” he said, almost automatically.

but this time you didn’t let him off so easily.

you flashed a cheeky smile, cocked your head to the side, and replied, “well i want to. unless you wanna take the stairs and pretend you’re not tired.”

that got you a look. brief. amused. his lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but not nothing either.

he stepped in and stood beside you, towering and silent and pretending he wasn’t eyeing your legs in the reflective elevator wall. you leaned against the side and grinned to yourself like a lunatic.

“what floor?” you asked, already knowing the answer. playing dumb. living out your sitcom fantasy.

“…same as yours,” he muttered, setting the bags down for a second. “you know that.”

you beamed. “just making conversation.”

he sighed. quiet. tired. maybe even a little fond, but you couldn’t tell.

and then, just as the doors opened, a sleepy voice echoed from down the hall— “dad?”

toji blinked. glanced up.

megumi stood outside their apartment in socks and Spider-Man pajamas, squinting at the two of you like he was already judging this moment for future therapy sessions.

“you took forever,” he said. “i thought you died.”

“well i didn’t,” toji grunted, picking up the bags again. “get inside.”

you waved, again. because apparently, this is your life now. it’s not enough to get embarrassed in front of your crush— his preteen son also has to witness your descent into neighborhood whore madness.

megumi stared. then looked at his dad. then back at you.

“…hi.”

victory.

you’re three days into operation ‘establish rapport’ and you swear it’s working. slowly. he’s still playing it cool— gruff, quiet, annoyingly unaffected— but you’re catching those little cracks. the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. the tiny pauses before he responds. the way his eyes always drop to your mouth when you smile too wide. the way he takes just a little too long to look away.

he’s slipping.

and you’re gonna be right there to catch him.

❥ STEP 3 — engineered domestic proximity (create a situation where he owes you and then emotionally blackmail him with kindness!)

it starts with a fake injury.

not like, hospital fake. just a little casual suffering. something light and flirty and “damn she might be unwell” coded.

you pick a thursday. the hallway’s quiet. you hear his door open— the soft clink of keys, the slow creak of the hinge— and then you strike.

toji turns the corner just in time to see you slumped against your apartment door, barefoot, hair a mess, hoodie slipping off your shoulder, clutching your ankle like a romcom extra who’s about to fall in love with the first man who offers her an ice pack. you even let out a pitiful little “ugh,” to really seal the deal.

he stops. eyes narrow.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

you wince, voice trembling perfectly as you look up at him with wide eyes and say, “i tripped on the stairs.”

technically true. you did, in fact, trip. you just made sure it was today. and loud enough for him to hear.

“you didn’t even leave your apartment,” he deadpans, looking absolutely done.

“…gravity’s everywhere?”

he sighs like you’re the world’s most annoying problem. runs a hand over his face. and you try not to short-circuit when he crouches down.

his hand wraps around your ankle— casually, confidently, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and his thumb brushes over your skin, rough and warm and way too distracting. he presses, checks the joint, and you flinch very dramatically.

he doesn’t react. “it’s not broken.”

you pout. “still hurts.”

toji gives you a long, tired look. then rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, probably something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking drama queen,” but reaches out anyway. big hands slide under your legs and back, and suddenly you’re being lifted. literally carried.

you make a noise that is not normal.

“jesus,” he grunts, shifting you in his arms. “what the hell do you eat?”

“excuse me??”

“relax,” he says, toeing open your apartment door. “you’re light.”

you are going to die here.

he carries you across the threshold like a goddamn bride and sets you down gently on the couch, muttering something about “needy neighbors” as he tosses your throw blanket over your lap. then pauses. stares at you for a second too long. his brows draw together like he’s thinking something he shouldn’t be.

“…don’t move,” he says finally. “i’ll get an ice pack.”

he disappears into your kitchen— uninvited, completely aware of where your freezer is— and you clutch the blanket to your chest like it’s holy protection from your own bad decisions and whisper;

“oh my god.”

step three is officially a success.

after that, things shift.

slow. subtle. like the hallway air is warmer now. like he doesn’t avoid you anymore.

the next time you make too much pasta (on purpose), you knock on his door and offer leftovers. “just in case,” you say with a smile. he raises an eyebrow, gives you a long look, but takes the container anyway.

“it’s good,” he mutters a few days later, passing you in the hall.

you blink. “what?”

“the pasta. wasn’t bad.”

you nearly trip over your own shoes.

when you run into him carrying groceries, you casually ask if he needs anything next time you go. he grunts something about paper towels. the next day, you drop off a pack at his door with a sticky note that says ‘paper-towel princess strikes again >:)’ and you swear you hear him laugh. just once. low. barely there.

and megumi? megumi is your new little buddy.

you “accidentally” bump into them on the stairs one weekend and ask him about school— next thing you know, you’re helping him with a science project at your dining table, glitter on your shirt and glue in your hair, and he actually smiles at you when it lights up. his eyes go wide. he looks proud. you melt.

toji shows up to get him an hour later.

he stops in the doorway, arms crossed. eyes flick between you and megumi on the couch, surrounded by worksheets and snacks and a movie playing softly in the background.

“…you don’t have to babysit, y’know.”

you glance up, then nudge megumi with your shoulder. “he’s cool. we’re having fun.”

toji stares. unreadable. his jaw works like he’s chewing on something he won’t say. and then he nods. once. slow.

“…yeah. he’s good.”

he leaves with megumi five minutes later, and you spend the rest of the night curled into your couch like a girl who just got emotionally married in the hallway.

a few days pass.

and then— he knocks on your door.

you open it and nearly fall over, because he’s standing there in a black t-shirt, holding a plastic container full of something that smells like soy sauce and heaven. his hair’s messy. his jaw’s tight. he doesn’t look like he wants to be here. but he is.

“we made too much,” he says. pauses. adds, almost begrudgingly, “me and ‘gumi.”

your brain goes static.

you accept it like it’s a holy relic. your hand brushes his. it’s fine. you’re normal.

“thank you,” you somehow manage breathe out.

you eat together on the steps between your units that night. plastic utensils. beer for him, water bottle for you. megumi’s inside watching something with way too much volume. the hallway buzzes with soft domestic noise.

he chuckles— an actual, real chuckle— when you tell him about your failed knee stunt getting you out of gym class in high school. it sounds like it surprises him. like it doesn’t happen often. you want to bottle the sound and save it for winter.

and then, as you’re wiping sauce from the corner of your mouth, he gives you this long, unreadable look. his eyes flick to your mouth. lingering.

“you’re trouble, aren’t you?”

you almost pass out.

“yeah,” you say, smiling slow. “but i’m cute about it.”

he laughs again. soft. huffed. the kind that makes your stomach flutter in the worst/best way.

note to self: a chuckle = an emotional orgasm in dilf language.

❥ STEP 4 — desperate times, horny measures (blur the line between “friendly neighbor” and “would let you hit raw if you asked nicely”)

you’ve played the long game. you’ve laid the groundwork. you’ve smiled, cooked, lingered in doorways and memorized his hallway habits. you helped his child with a diorama. you have earned your place in this man’s orbit. and now, you’re upping the ante.

tight tank tops with no bra? daily.

asking if he needs help lifting shit? always.

bending down in front of him for no reason whatsoever? the moment requires it.

you’ve “accidentally” dropped your keys outside his door. twice.

you’ve complimented his cologne when he wasn’t wearing any.

you’ve said the phrase “you must’ve been crazy hot in your twenties” with a completely straight face and full eye contact, just to watch his eyebrow twitch like he was deciding whether to argue or kiss you.

and toji?

toji has looked.

albeit, slow and restrained. but it’s there.

the way his gaze drops and lingers. the way his hand flexes when you laugh too hard. the way he sometimes says your name like it annoys him to have it on his tongue, like he’s chewing on it instead of swallowing. you’re getting to him. you know you are.

especially tonight.

it’s late. you’re bored. your hair looks good and your shorts are criminal. and you know he’s home because you heard the clink of a beer bottle hit his counter through your shared wall. so naturally, you text him:

you up?

no response…

you try again:

i’m making cookies and need a taste tester. u down?

there’s a pause. long enough to make you regret it. then finally:

don’t burn your kitchen down.

which— okay. rude. but also? not a no.

you show up at his door with a plate of warm cookies and the dumbest smile imaginable, leaning against the doorframe like a horny little housewife in denial, praying your lip gloss doesn’t smudge when you inevitably start smiling too hard.

the door swings open. and there he is.

shirtless, because of course. low sweatpants, towel around his neck, hair still damp. a vein in his bicep flexing like it’s personally here to ruin you. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you.

“you actually baked something?”

you pout. “don’t sound so shocked.”

he huffs. not quite a laugh. steps aside and lets you in. silent permission. another small victory.

you sit on the couch, drop the plate between you. he takes a cookie. you take a risk.

“so…” you say, crossing your legs slowly, letting your voice dip soft and sweet. “what do i get if they’re good?”

toji chews. swallows. side-eyes you. “…you want a prize for not poisoning me?”

you tilt your head, smile like trouble. lean a little closer, so your thigh brushes his.

“i want something,” you murmur.

he watches you. unreadable.

your heart’s racing. your leg’s touching his. the tension is so thick it could suffocate a small village. he’s quiet. too quiet. and for a second— a single, traitorous second— you believe. believe he’s going to touch you. say something filthy. hell, maybe even kiss you.

but instead— he stands up.

you freeze.

no.

he walks to the door.

absolutely not.

he opens it.

“go home, sweetheart.”

you blink. “…what?”

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t even flinch.

“you’ve had your fun,” he mutters, voice low. final. “time to go.”

the plate of cookies is still on the table. your lip gloss is still perfect. and this man— this walking thirst trap of a dilf— just opened the door and told you to leave as if you were an inconvenience.

you stand there for five full seconds. staring at the wood grain like it personally wronged you. your mouth opens, closes, no words ever come out.

no explanation. no thank you. not even a cookie to-go.

you take the hint.

you walk home— five steps that feel like a funeral march— let yourself back into your apartment with hands that won’t stop shaking, and close the door behind you like it might collapse if you don’t hold it up. then you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head, and try very, very hard not to cry over a man who never asked you to try this hard in the first place.

❥ STEP 5 — let him come to you (the part of the spiral where you stop trying, and he starts breaking)

you’ve officially stopped trying.

no more cookies, fake run-ins, or conveniently timed errands. you’re done bending over near his door like some desperate domestic goddess waiting to be claimed. no more lingering glances, no flirty texts, no smiles he could potentially mistake for an invitation

you go cold. polite. distant.

“hey,” he mutters in the hallway one morning, voice a little rough from sleep.

“morning,” you reply. clipped. unreadable. no smile.

you don’t linger. don’t wait for anything in return. you catch him glancing over when you pass, but you don’t look back. just keep walking like you’ve got better things to do than pine for a man who slams doors in your face.

when megumi finds you on the stairs the following weekend and asks if you want to help with another project, you smile softly, press a hand to the top of his head, and say, “not this week, bud. busy.” he frowns a little. you ruffle his hair, and walk away without looking up.

you start going out more. wearing new outfits. dresses you hadn’t felt bold enough to wear before. lip gloss that makes your mouth look mean. you let strangers hold the door for you. let them compliment you. you let them linger.

you laugh too loud outside your apartment one night, on purpose, after coming back from a date with someone who isn’t him. your heels click against the floor. your voice drips with honey. you lean against your door while someone says something into your ear and you throw your head back like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

you know he’s listening.

you feel his eyes on you like a bruise forming slow.

and then the shift begins.

it’s subtle, at first.

he starts speaking more.

“mornin’,” he grunts one day, voice thicker now. rougher.

you nod, toss him a quiet “hey.”

“new dress?” he says one night when you pass in the hallway.

you glance down at it, fingers brushing your hip. nod again. “yeah.”

he stares a second too long.

you keep walking.

the next week, he holds the elevator for you. for the very first time.

you step inside without looking at him, lean against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. he stands beside you, silent for a second too long.

“…got plans tonight?” he asks.

you glance at him. his hand’s on the railing. his eyes are on your legs. the heat between you is palpable.

“maybe,” you shrug. “why? you wanna know if i’m free?”

he doesn’t answer. just scoffs and looks away.

but his jaw tightens. you see it.

and you smile to yourself when the elevator dings.

you don’t stop. you don’t wait.

and then— one night. late.

a knock at your door.

you weren’t expecting it. you’re in your tank top and sleep shorts, hair still a little messy, face clean of makeup. for a second you debate not opening it at all.

but then you do.

he’s there.

black t-shirt. low voice. tension rolling off him like heat. his eyes sweep over you once— bare legs, bare face, bare everything— and settle on your mouth.

you open your lips to say something but nothing comes out. for a second, he doesn’t speak. just stares. like he’s trying to remember why this was a bad idea.

“you done with your little game?” he asks finally, voice rough, jaw set.

you blink. tilt your head. heart stuttering.

“why?” you say. “you jealous?”

he exhales slow. like he’s holding something in. then steps forward, just once. close enough that his chest nearly brushes yours. the hallway hums with silence. you can feel it thickening between you—every breath, every second, every inch of space closing.

he looks down at you, jaw clenched. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them. his gaze drops to your mouth. lingers.

“you think i haven’t thought about fucking you since the first day you moved in?”

jackpot.

you smile. slow and wicked.

“well,” you murmur, stepping back just enough to tug him inside, “what are you waiting for?”

❥ STEP 5.1 — fuck the dilf. repeatedly!! (aka: daddy finally breaks, and so does your spine)

the door isn’t even fully closed before he’s got you pinned against it, one hand slamming it shut behind you while the other grips your jaw hard enough to tilt your head back. his mouth crashes into yours— hot, hungry, furious— like he’s trying to erase every other man who’s ever looked at you, every laugh you gave someone else, every second you weren’t his.

his hands are everywhere. gripping your waist, your throat, your jaw. rough. greedy. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through sheer force, like he doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave marks, dragging you closer, forcing your body flush against his so you can feel him— hard, heavy, pressing insistently between you.

“this what you wanted, sweetheart?” he growls, dragging his mouth down your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver. “walkin’ around like that every damn day- no bra, tiny little shorts, always smilin’ at me like a fuckin’ tease—”

you gasp when he shoves his thigh between yours, grinding hard, forcing your hips to rock against him. your pussy’s already soaked— soaked enough that the friction makes your head spin, a broken little whimper slipping out before you can stop it. he feels it. of course he does.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping lower, eyes darkening as he watches your face fall apart. “already wet. knew it. knew you were walkin’ around like that for me.”

“you shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, even as your hands clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, nails digging into his back like you’re scared he’ll disappear and you’d rather die than have him pull away now.

“don’t fuckin’ care,” he snarls, cupping your pussy through your panties, pressing just enough to make your knees buckle. his thumb drags over you, feeling how drenched you are through the thin fabric. “been thinkin’ about this cunt for weeks.”

you moan— full body, spine-arching, dignity-leaving moan— as he yanks your panties to the side and sinks two fingers into you without hesitation. nothing stops him. your body takes him easily, molded for him, as though his hands belong there and they’ve always known exactly where to go.

you’re so wet it’s obscene. it squelches. it gives around him immediately, your walls fluttering, clenching like they recognize him, like they’ve been waiting.

“shit,” he hisses, pumping his fingers slow just to feel it, watching the way your face twists. “tight little thing. messy already. all that attitude just ‘cause you needed a cock in you, huh?”

you nod, crying out, grinding against his palm like a bitch in heat, chasing the friction, chasing him, hips moving on instinct, your body no longer yours to command.

he slaps your cunt. hard. you jerk, a broken sob ripping out of you.

“use your words.”

“yes, fuck, yes, i wanted this, wanted you, please- needed you so bad- been thinking about you too—”

“yeah?” he mocks, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, your knees give out. “needed daddy’s cock that bad? all that work just to get it, huh?”

he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, making eye contact while his tongue drags over his knuckles— savoring you, devouring every trace with the hunger of a man who’s finally getting what he’s craved.

you feel your face burn. your thighs tremble. your body aches.

“needy lil thing,” he mutters. “so desperate for daddy’s cock you made friends with my kid to get it.”

your mouth drops open.

“fuck,” you whisper, humiliated, horny, heart beating out of your chest. “i-i didn’t—”

“yeah, you did,” he cuts you off, voice low and certain, already tugging his sweats down. “i saw right through you. every little look. everytime you bent over in front of me like you were askin’ for it.”

his cock springs free— massive, thick, veiny, heavy against your stomach, already leaking. it twitches when he drags it through your folds, smearing your wetness all over himself, groaning under his breath at the feeling.

“watchin’ me, droppin shit in the hallway, showin’ up all cute with cookies—” he continues, voice roughening. “all so i’d fuck you like this.”

he grabs your hips. lifts you like it’s easy.

you wrap your legs around him on instinct, clinging, desperate, your ankles locking behind his back.

he slams you against the wall and shoves in deep.

you scream.

it burns for half a second— then it’s just full. overwhelming. he stretches you open, every inch fitting so perfectly it feels intentional, inevitable— your body made to take him, built around the shape of him alone.

“this what you wanted?” he growls, already moving, setting a brutal pace, hips snapping harshly into yours. “wanted daddy to stuff this sloppy little cunt so full you can’t think?”

you’re crying already. sobbing into his shoulder, nails clawing at him, dragging down his back hard enough to leave lines. “yesyes- oh my god- yes please- don’t stop, don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. he can’t.

he fucks you hard. no mercy. no build-up. just punishing, deep, filthy strokes that slam into you over and over, your tits bouncing with every thrust, your body jostling against the wall, the wet sound of it echoing in the room— proof of how wrecked you are for him.

“listen to that,” he grunts, one hand coming down to grab your ass, spreading you open, forcing himself even deeper. “fuckin’ soaked. takin’ me so easy.”

“toji—”

“nah,” he snaps, grabbing your jaw again, forcing you to look at him, eyes blown wide, mouth open, completely ruined. “say it right.”

“daddy—” you choke.

his hips stutter for half a second. then he loses it.

“yeah,” he groans, fucking into you harder, deeper, pace turning reckless. “that’s it. say it again.”

“daddy, fuck, daddy please- please don’t stop—”

“good girl,” he breathes, voice wrecked now, forehead pressing against yours. “knew you’d sound pretty sayin’ it.”

he keeps going until your legs shake so hard you can’t hold yourself up, until your body goes limp in his arms, until you’re nothing but weight and noise and need. then he drags you away from the wall, carries you like you weigh nothing, and drops you onto the couch.

your shirt’s gone in seconds. your tits spill free, bouncing when he grabs them, squeezing hard, biting one, then the other, tongue dragging over the marks he leaves, teeth sinking in just enough to make you cry out.

you whine, arching into him, completely gone, hips lifting even though you can barely move.

“look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “fuckin’ ruined already.”

he spits on your chest. spreads it with his thumb. then shoves you back, spreading your legs open, staring at your dripping cunt like it’s dinner, like he could spend hours there.

“not done with you yet,” he mutters.

then he dives in.

he eats you out starving— insatiable, greedy, nothing held back. hasn’t touched anyone in years, and now he’s buried in you, treating your pussy like a lifeline. his tongue moves everywhere— flicking, sucking, pushing deep, groaning into the mess he’s making, matching your desperation, needing this with the same feverish hunger you do.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, nose brushing your clit, making you jerk violently. “all for me, huh? all this just for me?”

you’re shaking. crying. your hands in his hair, grinding down onto his face, desperate, greedy, nasty.

“yes- fuck- yes—”

he hums, pleased, and the vibration sends you over immediately.

you cum once. then twice. he doesn’t stop. he eats you through it, moaning into your pussy while you scream and sob and claw at the cushions like a feral bitch, your thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the couch.

“too much, too much—”

“nah,” he mutters, holding you down, hands gripping your thighs so hard they’ll bruise. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take it until your body gives out and you’re nothing but a twitching, whimpering mess under him, tears streaking your face, chest heaving.

when he finally pulls back, his face is soaked. his chin’s messy. his pupils are blown so wide he looks dangerous.

he strokes his cock over your twitching cunt, dragging it through your folds, tapping your clit just to make you jolt, smearing your wetness back over you.

“you want daddy to put a baby in you next?” he growls.

your brain breaks. completely. all you can do is nod frantically, tears still clinging to your lashes as you whimper out a little, “yes please”

toji grins at that. dark, and way too cocky.

“fuckin’ knew it.”

and then he slams back in and fucks you like he means it— like he’s trying to knock you up, ruin you, break you down and rebuild you around his dick. your body takes it, greedily, desperately, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let him go, like you want to keep him there.

“gonna fill you up,” he groans, thrusts getting sloppy now, deeper somehow, grinding into you. “gonna keep you full of me.”

you’re sobbing. babbling. “pleasepleaseplease—”

he finishes deep. thick. hot. doesn’t pull out. just buries himself as far as he can go and groans into your neck, hips stuttering while you feel it— feel him— filling you, spilling inside you, too much, too warm, your body fluttering around him.

he stays there. holds you. keeps you plugged with his cock while your body trembles and leaks around him.

you’re drooling. whimpering. completely, utterly spent.

“good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, softer now but still possessive. “took me so well.”

his hand slides down your stomach. presses there. like he’s already imagining it.

“you’re mine now.”

you barely come back to yourself before he’s moving again.

you’re still shaking. still sensitive. your cunt is pulsing, aching and full and leaking around him, your thighs sticky, your body limp and boneless against the couch. every nerve feels raw, like your skin’s been turned inside out.

and he’s still inside you.

still hard.

you let out a weak, broken sound when he shifts his hips, cock dragging inside you— slow, deliberate— he’s reminding you exactly where he is.

“toji—” you whimper, voice wrecked, barely there.

his hand tightens on your hip immediately.

“what’d i tell you?” he mutters, low and sharp.

you choke on a breath. “d-daddy—”

“yeah,” he exhales, satisfied, rolling his hips again, slower this time, savoring it. “that’s better.”

you feel everything now. every inch. every drag. the way he stretches you again even though you’re already so fucked out it hurts. your walls flutter around him uncontrollably, oversensitive, and he groans at it— deep, filthy.

“fuck,” he hisses. “still squeezin’ me like that? after all that?”

“too much,” you whimper, pushing weakly at his chest, even as your hips betray you, rocking up into him. “i can’t—”

“you can,” he cuts you off, already pulling out halfway just to slam back in. you sob.

“you will.”

your body jerks with it, your tits bouncing weakly with each thrust, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. everything feels too intense— too deep, too full, too good.

“s-sensitive—” you gasp, nails digging into his arms.

“i know,” he mutters, almost mean about it, dragging his cock against that spot again on purpose. “that’s the point.”

you cry out, back arching hard, your whole body trembling as he starts fucking you again— slower than before, but somehow worse. deeper. more intentional. every thrust aimed to make you feel it, to drag it out of you.

“so fucked out already,” he murmurs, grabbing your chin and forcing your head up so you have to meet his eyes. “can’t even think anymore, huh?”

you shake your head, tears slipping down your temples. “no—”

“all that attitude gone,” he continues, voice low, almost mocking, thumb brushing your lip. “all that mouth, and now you’re just- what?”

you swallow, breath hitching. “yours—”

his grip tightens.

“say it again.”

“yours,” you sob, louder this time. “i’m yours—”

“yeah you are,” he groans, pace picking up just a little, just enough to make your head spin again. “fuckin’ made for me, aren’t you? takin’ me like this, still beggin’ for more—”

“i’m not—” you try, voice breaking, but your hips roll into him again, chasing it, proving him right.

he laughs. low. mean.

“yeah,” he breathes. “that’s what i thought.”

his hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit— already swollen, oversensitive, aching.

you jolt hard.

“nono, please- s’too much—”

he circles it anyway.

slow.

you squeal.

your body spasms instantly, thighs clamping around him, back arching so hard it almost hurts. it hits you out of nowhere— another orgasm ripping through you before you can even process it, your cunt clenching down on him so tight he curses.

“fuuuckk,” he groans, thrust stuttering. “that’s it, there it is—”

you’re sobbing now. full-on crying. your body shaking uncontrollably as he keeps moving, keeps rubbing, using you through it.

“can’t take it- can’t—” you gasp, voice dissolving into broken sounds.

“you are takin’ it,” he says, not slowing down, not stopping, cock dragging in and out of your fluttering, oversensitive cunt while your body keeps spasming around him. “look at you. still squeezin’ me. still want it.”

you don’t even know if that’s true anymore. you just know you can’t stop reacting, can’t stop feeling.

he shifts suddenly— grabs your hips, flips you over like it’s nothing.

you yelp, barely catching yourself before your face hits the couch.

“stay,” he mutters, pressing you down, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other guiding himself back in.

you whine the second he pushes back inside— somehow deeper like this, your body folding around him differently, more exposed, more helpless.

“shit,” he breathes, gripping your hips tight. “yeah. this is better.”

and then he starts again.

hard.

faster this time.

your body jolts forward with every thrust, your cheek pressed into the cushions, your fingers clawing at the fabric as the sounds get louder, wet and messy.

“daddy—!” you cry, voice muffled, broken.

“that’s it,” he groans behind you, hand sliding up your back, gripping your neck— not choking, just holding. controlling. “say it louder.”

he fucks you deeper with every word.

“who’s pussy is this?”

“yours—!” you sob.

“who you doin’ all that shit for, huh?” he snaps, pace turning relentless again. “all that dressin’ up, all that flirtin’—”

“you—! just you—!”

“damn right.”

his hand slides down your back, grabs your ass, spreading you open again so he can watch himself disappear inside you, over and over, your cunt clinging to him like it doesn’t want to let go.

“fuckin’ made a mess of you,” he mutters, almost impressed. “can’t even keep it in.”

you can’t. it’s leaking. every thrust pushes more of him out, slick and messy, your body too full, too used.

you’re gone. completely.

he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your ear.

“one more,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “gimme one more.”

you shake your head weakly. “can’t—”

“yes you can.”

his hand finds your clit again.

you break.

your whole body locks up, a scream tearing out of you as another orgasm crashes through, sharper this time, almost painful in how intense it is, your cunt clenching so tight around him it drags him over the edge with you.

“fuck—” he groans, biting into your shoulder as he finishes again, hips stuttering hard against you, spilling deep, grinding into you as he rides it out.

you collapse under him completely.

he stays there for a second. breathing heavy. still inside you. still holding you down.

then, softer this time— just a little—

“told you,” he mutters against your skin. “you could take it.”

you don’t respond. you physically can’t.

you’re just… gone.

and he sounds way too pleased about it.

you wake up sore. sore in ways you didn’t even know were possible. your thighs ache, your hips feel bruised, your legs do not work. your pussy’s twitching— puffy, overstimulated, and leaking. there’s cum literally dripping out of you, sticky between your thighs, cooling against the sheets.

and toji’s still there.

sprawled across your bed like he owns it, like you’re his bed now, arm heavy over your waist, breathing slow against the back of your neck. his chest rises and falls steady, the heat of his body sinking into yours. it’s warm. safe. a little filthy. you can feel his cock pressed to your ass— soft, but still there, like a threat.

you’re not sure if he’s awake. you’re not sure if you’re awake. your whole body feels broken in. chewed up. worshipped. wrecked. you blink blearily at the sunlight slanting through your blinds, brain swimming in the slow syrup of morning-after haze, and shift slightly beneath the weight of him.

he moves with you. groans low, deep in his chest, as though the stretch of his limbs aches. then, voice gravel-thick and sleep-rough:

“fuck. you made me pull a muscle.”

you try to laugh, but it comes out cracked. “good.”

he snorts, lazy and fond, burying his face in your shoulder and muttering, “brat.”

you hum, cheek pressed into the pillow, toes curling under the sheets. you don’t move. don’t want to. his arm tightens around your waist just enough to remind you it’s still there.

you’re quiet for a second. breathing in the moment. then— soft, teasing, and only half joking:

“so… what are we now?”

he goes still. just for a beat. long enough for your stomach to drop a little. you tense, suddenly hyperaware of how real this feels, how easy it would be to ruin it. your heart thumps like you’re asking him to raise a child. (which. maybe you are. unknowingly. oops.)

he exhales.

then, low. rough. certain.

“mine.”

you short-circuit. go quiet.

he doesn’t say it again. doesn’t need to. just grabs your thigh, still sore, and drags you back against his chest like he thinks you might try to leave— even though you physically can’t. you melt into the mattress with a broken little sigh, breath catching when his cock shifts against your ass, not quite hard, but heavy and possessive all the same.

you stay there. warm. stupidly happy. still full of his cum.

his fingers trail over your waist lazily, absent-minded, almost like he’s petting you. like you’re his and this is normal now. you close your eyes, let yourself float in it, wondering how the hell you went from faking ankle injuries to getting bred in your own hallway by the hottest dilf alive.

and when megumi knocks on the door half an hour later and yells, “dad, i’m hungry,”

toji groans like a man betrayed. buries his face in your neck, kisses your skin as if it’s your fault he has responsibilities.

“you’re makin’ breakfast,” he mutters.

you turn your head, blinking at him. “me?!”

“you want me to limp in there with my back blown out?”

“…you blew my back out.”

“exactly,” he grins against your throat. “teamwork.”

you roll your eyes. groan. try to wiggle away, but he doesn’t let you. just holds you tighter and mumbles something about five more minutes before letting you go— barely.

you’re smiling as you get up. your legs are still jelly. your thighs stick when you move. you’re sore and used and leaking, and you’ve never felt so fucking good.

Back when he roamed the earth alone, destined to walk moonlit streets only, seeking his prey in the dark. It was a life he had grown accustomed to, but every single time he hunted, he was hoping he could find someone else. Just one person.

One person to exchange a kind word with. A soft caress maybe, to breathe life back into this dead body of his.

Just someone like him. Who understood.

The worst thing a vampire could be was lonely, Suguru thought before he met you. Now he knows the pain of heartbreak was far greater.

Because how cruel does this cursed existence have to be, to give one a sliver of hope – and then brutally take it all away again?

You made Suguru realised he wasn't a dark void after all, because if his heart hurt this much, it was surely still there.

Dead, unmoving, but there.

It changed everything.

You changed everything.

You.

In all his years, no – centuries alone, you finally came to him like an angel in the night. Dripping in blood, the red crimson mixing with your skin and glowing under the full moon.

You hadn't noticed him straight away, which he thought amusing. Considering the amount of work Suguru had put into his stealth abilities, he was glad to see it could work even on those of his kind. It also gave him just a few seconds longer to just…watch.

You were pinning down someone under you, teeth deep into their neck as you gorged yourself. Nothing more than an animal at that point, reminding Suguru of the worst part of his condition. But such a primitive, hideous sight was made mesmerizing by you.

You were like a painter.

Blood was your ink. The street was your canvas.

Did you know he was watching? Was that why you took your time in that way?

Suguru always drank with nothing but disgust for himself, swallowing the other person's essence as fast as he could as if a quick death was somehow an apology.

Such a disgusting act shouldn't be made so beautiful.

Where had you even come from?

Suguru had roamed this continent for years and had never met anyone else.

Here you were – the answer to all his prayers. Maybe they weren't going on deaf years after all. Maybe he still deserved a little respite, despite being what he was.

Suguru wanted to cry, but he held it in so to not disturb you. The worst thing that could happen was startle you and have you ran away.

At that moment though, he had decided he'd follow you to the ends of the earth if he had to.

An odd promise made to someone not even aware of his existence yet, but Suguru was desperate – he needed you. Hadn't even met you, but he fucking needed you.

You finally tilted your head upwards, fangs fully on show, red on white.

And then you saw him.

He noticed how your eyes immediately met his, like an invisible thread had pulled you to him. The eyes of a beast, deformed like his were, an unnatural colour that matched the blood you were wiping from your chin.

Suguru saw you get ready to run away, with the way your legs tensed and your posture rearranged. But he was quick to put his hands up, taking a quiet step in your direction.

You cocked your head sideways, assessing. Understanding.

And then your beautiful lips parted.

"How long have you been watching?" you finally asked, the small hint of a prideful smirk tugging at the edges of your lips.

What a beautiful sound it was. Suguru couldn't breathe – your voice was nearly as gorgeous as your beautiful face, now fully visible to him.

You were his salvation. He was sure of it.

An angel sent from above. Or… below, in this case.

"I didn't know there were others" he heard himself say, voice shaking just like the hands he hid in his pockets; too worried of anything that might make you look down on him.

You stared at him for a moment. Taking him in, your head tilted in curiosity.

And then your posture dropped a little, less guarded and more sad. Pitiful, even.

"How long have you been alone?"

That's when the first tears started pouring out of Suguru's red eyes, his body reacting to your question before his mind could.

He felt himself sink to his knees, falling to your feet, tears spilling and spilling like they hadn't in years. Probably not since before he had lost his mortality.

You could have run away. Could have laughed at him, thought him weak like his maker had, and left to find your next victim.

To expect compassion from a vampire was far beyond reason.

But you didn't do that.

Instead, you walked towards him. Slowly, carefully, maybe even wondering if this had been a trap. It didn't hurt to be cautious, not in this world. Not for who you were.

You lowered yourself on your knees – so close, much closer than he had been to anyone he didn't intend on drinking blood from in the past centuries. And then you extended a tentative hand, and cupped his cheek.

"I know what it's like" you murmured.

Suguru didn't mean to throw himself at you like he had, but all reason had left him the second you spoke to him so kindly. His arms crossed your back, pulling you into him and crashing onto you at the same time, crying onto your chest so loud it might alert other people to the crime scene you currently found yourselves on.

But nothing else mattered at that moment.

He had found you.

His angel.

The feeling of arms around his back was foreign to him at this point – how long had it been since someone pulled him in instead of away? Since someone held him?

Your skin was as cold as his, but he could swear his heart felt warm.

And as Suguru cried tears of grief and of relief, you slowly caressed his long strands, shushing him with gentleness a creature like him did not deserve.

 Suguru wasn't even sure how long you held him like that. So patient.

You were perfect.

He took you to his apartment that night – you were surprised he even had one. But in all his years alive, or, dead, really, he felt a bit of comfort was necessary. After too long roaming aimlessly, Suguru just wanted a home.

He just never expected he'd actually get to invite someone in, and expose a little more of himself than he had intended. But Suguru wanted to try.

You told him your name. An old sound, not native to this land and maybe, to any of the modern day. But you refused to say more; to tell him who was your maker or how long you had been like this, so Suguru didn't pry.

You wanted to move forward, you explained. Look ahead instead of behind. That sounded great to him – Suguru was never able to look at anywhere but the past. His regrets. The wrong turns he had made. Maybe you could help change that.

Another curious thing about you was that you didn't speak of your vampire condition with hatred at all. To you, living forever was exciting, not a curse. You spoke of lands you wished to see and things you still wanted to do.

The world changed every day and you were changing with it. It was a beautiful perspective, something he had never even considered.

But when he asked of the things you missed, you stayed quiet.

Too quiet.

"What's the point of reminiscing" you scoffed, and Suguru could tell there was a splinter there somewhere.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"Don't be" you interrupted, looking him in the eyes once more. If he had a living heart, it would have beat faster, he was sure of it. "Are you hungry?" you squinted, so good at reading him already.

"I try not to over indulge" he explained. He worried you might call him weak for admitting he hated to kill, but you seemed more confused than anything.

"It's almost dawn" you muttered. "Will you be ok until nightfall?"

Were you worried about him?

"I am used to it" he tried to smile.

You were still not convinced.

"You don't like the taste?" you asked, one brow raising as if trying to conceal your judgment.

"It's not that, it's–" he struggled with his words, letting out a long sigh. "I don't like inflicting pain"

Your lips turned into an almost smile, amused. "But you're a vampire" you said, as if he didn't already know.

"Am I?" he teased, letting out a self deprecating chuckle.

You laughed with him. Head falling forwards just slightly, your pointy teeth in full display as you let out the sweetest laugh he had heard in centuries.

"I'd assume so" you teased back. "Fangs, check. Red eyes, check" you paused, humming with a finger to your chin. "Perhaps you are just a deformed human?"

Suguru laughed with you. "I haven't seen my face in years, but I'd hope it wasn't deformed"

"No" you smiled. "It's a very handsome face"

That gave him pause, his mouth hanging open before he could blurt out the next taunt in your back and forth.

You thought he was handsome?

He had heard it often, back when he was alive. But being unable to see his reflection was one of the curses of a vampire.

Truth was, he didn't even remember his human face anymore.

"It is?" he asked, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

"It is" you smiled. And then you brought your hand to his face, a single finger ghosting over his cold skin. You took your time in tracing every curve and ridge of his skin, your eyes tracking your finger like you were making a mental map for later.

"I like the shape of your eyes" you murmured. "And of your cheeks"

Suguru almost pulled you into a kiss right then, but he was left completely frozen under your touch. It had been years, no – centuries, since someone touched him with such kindness. Looked at him like something to admire instead of fear.

"How is mine?" you asked suddenly, dropping your hand despite how much he wanted you to keep going.

"What?" he murmured, like snapping back from a trance.

"How is my face?" you repeated.

Oh, he smiled, unsure of where even to start. Suguru had many words for it. Beautiful, mesmerising, gorgeous.

But instead, he said–

"I could show you"

Your eyebrows immediately drew closer, head tilting to the side in confusion.

"What do you mean?" you asked.

"I can draw" he nodded to the small notebook lying on the table, some white pages scattered around it. "Would you like me to draw you?"

It was your turn to be completely frozen in place now. He could have sworn your lower lip wobbled a little, tears starting to form in your beautiful eyes, though you swallowed them as best as you could.

"Could you?" you asked. "I don't even remember what I look like"

"I know what that's like" he echoed the words you had said earlier in the evening.

Something happened between the two of you then.

One of those things only poets could really do justice. It felt like that invisible thread had tugged the two of you just a little closer.

And in your face, a myriad of emotions – gratitude. Acknowledgment. Kinship between monsters, who didn't feel very monstrous at all in this moment in time.

Suguru pulled out his materials – parchment paper and ink, while his model watched patiently.

"How do you want me?" you asked, sounding a little nervous, if he had heard it right.

There were a million ways Suguru could answer that question.

"You're perfect just like that" he replied.

Your eyes blinked, whole face tensing before it relaxed finally, and you sat back a little more on the sofa you shared.

"It's mean to tease" you complained with an adorable frown.

"It's just the truth" he hummed, starting to prepare.

The first step was looking at his subject. Suguru took his time to take in every little detail of your expression, unable to ignore how you struggled to hold his gaze or how you tried to force your lips to not smile.

How did he get this lucky?

Eventually the pen did touch the paper, tracing dark lines carefully, hoping his hands would be skilled enough to capture even a fraction of your charm.

You waited calmly, the most patient subject he had ever had. It had been a long while since anyone allowed him to paint them like this – not since this cursed had removed him from society and life.

He had long felt unable to walk among the living.

But now with you, he'd happily walk among the dead.

"Let me see" you said as soon as his hands put the pen down. Not that patient, it seemed.

Suguru turned the paper around, and your hands wrapped around it to bring them closer. Your eyes darted from one corner of the page to the other, taking in everything, every single thing.

"It's beautiful" you whispered.

"You are" Suguru agreed.

You turned to him, and he noticed you were crying.

"Is this what I look like?" you asked, holding the drawing close.

It was Suguru's turn to cup your cheek, thumb brushing under your eyes. "I was only able to capture a fraction of your beauty"

You swallowed thickly, lip trembling, and then you turned to the picture again. "They used to say I had my mother's eyes" you whispered, brushing a finger over the drawing. "I haven't seen her eyes in years"

Suguru didn't know what to say to that. He didn't remember his family's faces either.

You looked back at him, clutching the drawing to your chest.

"Thank you" you whispered among the tears.

Suguru couldn't take it any longer.

He leaned forwards, slamming his lips across yours as your hands gladly found his long strands, pulling him desperately closer to you.

How long had it been since he had been kissed?

He couldn't even remember.

Your mouth eagerly parted for him, accepting him, inviting him, your own tongue searching for his as neither of you cared about how messy you were. Lips, tongues, teeth – all slamming together in a dance of pure need.

He only noticed you were bleeding when he felt the metallic taste on his tongue, reawakening his empty stomach. "I'm sorry–" he said, kissing your lips over and over where he had impulsively bitten them.

But you laughed. "Are you that hungry?" you teased.

"I couldn't help it, I–" he tried to explain.

I just wanted you whole, is what he would have said, maybe. I just need you too much.

But your laugh once again interrupted all thoughts going through his head.

He watched you bring your forearm to your mouth, biting right in the middle of it, and extending the dripping red to him.

"You can feast on me" you said. "I'm already dead"

Suguru didn't know if you were taunting him for his comment earlier, but he gratefully accepted. Vampire blood wouldn't fill him up like human, but it would definitely help quench his hunger.

His lips closed where you had bitten your skin, swallowing your essence as his eyes closed and his throat hummed.

No one had ever tasted this sweet.

He was lost in it. Addicted from a single taste.

His hands held each side of your arm, pulling you closer to him as he gorged on you.

And then you made a sound – small, unintentional, and beautiful. Suguru snapped his fox eyes open to look at you, your mouth open in pleasure as the sweetest whimpers escaped your lips.

Suguru's lips immediately left your forearm to find yours again, needing to swallow your symphony. "Did you like that?" he asked, hands traveling to your waist and lower, settling on your hips where you rolled them with abandon, grinding against his.

"Yeah" you moaned, nodding your head and desperately holding his face.

Suguru didn't need any more encouragement.

His mouth traveled to your neck this time, fangs sinking into your flesh in a blink, your whole body convulsing at the contact.

"Fuck–" you whimpered, as Suguru kept drinking from you, stealing your blood like you had stolen his unbeating heart.

His whole body was caging you in, his hands encouraging your hips to keep moving as you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him further into you.

"Suguru" you moaned his name, and he was gone.

His hands moved from your hips to your middle, easily tearing the fabric of the clothes you wore, and you looked at him wide eyed with an amused smile, the red still dripping from your neck along the curve of your collarbone.

Suguru repositioned himself, bringing his body lower and forcing your legs to your chest, desperate to taste all of you.

In a quick movement, he was bunching his long hair into a bun, eyes hypnotized by the sight of you, naked, legs open in invitation.

"You're beautiful" he whispered, finally sinking his head between your thighs. He inhaled your scent, so sweet it was intoxicating, and licked a long stripe along your underwear that made your whole body jolt up.

He was sure your strength could match his, but you didn't complain when he pinned you down fully and gave your underwear the same treatment the rest of your clothes had gotten, the tearing sound of the fabric echoing in the room until you were fully exposed.

How long had it been?

Suguru felt something close to anxiety in his stomach, worried he wouldn't know how to satisfy you properly. It had been decades of no practice, after all.

But your hand closed around his, urging him with a single blink of your long eyelashes, bottom lip caught between your fangs like you needed him to.

Suddenly all worry was gone, and the only thing left in the world was you.

Suguru lowered himself, tongue licking a flat strip along your slit, and your other hand searched for his hair, pulling strands off the loose bun he had hastily put together.

He took his time exploring, learning what you liked, paying attention to each little reaction. He was so grateful you let him be here. So grateful you had stumbled into his life.

"Right here?" he asked, smiling against your folds when you let out a particularly loud moan.

"Mmh" you shook your head yes desperately, rocking your hips on his face, and Suguru thought himself the happiest man unalive. "Right there, please, Sugu–"

"You're so pretty when you beg" he smiled, dragging his tongue along the same spot that had you seeing stars.

Your moans kept building and building, echoing through the walls of his small apartment.

"Close already?" he asked, feeling just a little bit smug at how quickly he was making you unravel. Perhaps this wasn't a talent easily lost.

"It's been–ngh–a long time" you explained, hands gripping his shoulders, body folding inwards.

Suguru watched you fall apart on his tongue and it was the most beautiful thing he'd witnessed in all his years.

But not only that – it felt almost a little special, that it also had been a long time for you.He wasn't sure why he had assumed the contrary, but he hated to think life had been as lonely for you as it had for him.

Your nails dug so deep into his shoulders they drew blood now, but you didn't seem to notice in your daze. Gods, Suguru wished he could see you like this every day to the rest of eternity.

He finally stood up, removing each article of clothing slowly, as his smug grin followed each tremble of the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Beautiful.

Your eyes followed each new uncovered inch of him. His defined shoulders, his veiny forearms. How his bun came loose and fell along his broad back, dark strands brushing over the skin of his defined chest.

He was handsome. Perfectly chiselled and perfectly defined like he had been created to bring you to your knees.

And to your knees it brought you. You swiftly pushed yourself off the sofa to kneel in front of this magnificent, beautifully unnatural man, as your fingers hooked to the edge of his trousers, the last bit of clothing that hid him from you.

"You want to take me in your mouth?" he asked, thumb brushing your cheek as you nodded an eager yes. "You're so good to me" he hummed in amusement. Each word from him was a mixture of tender and lewd, his soft tone dripping with desire himself.

You finally freed him of his clothes, a little startled at the sheer size of him. You wanted him so bad, wanted to feel every inch of him–

"Open"

All thoughts disappeared in a puff of smoke, hearing him sound like that.

So you did.

"Good" he groaned, sinking into your mouth. He took his time, slowing down when you gagged around him, holding your head in complete control. A control you relented, considering you could easily bite his member off if you so wished.

But it felt… nice, to not be in control anymore.

A vampire life was calculated, precise, constantly on the look out.

It felt nice to give him all of you.

And the boy who was crying in your arms hours ago, was now rocking his hips against your face with abandon, whispering little praises that motivated you to take him deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

Suguru was close to losing his mind, each thread of reality snapping away at the way your throat constricted around him. He was so close to releasing himself in your mouth, but he didn't want that.

Not before he had felt your orgasm on his cock.

He pulled you away, panting, but didn't give you much time to question it. Suguru was on top of you in an instant, hands on either side of your head, his mouth back on yours.

His body pinned you down on the floor, your legs closed around his waist again – as if neither of you wanted to waste any more time, your hips slammed together in a unnatural pace, all of him sinking into you while your face scrunched at the stretch.

"Too much?" he asked, but you were smiling at him again.

"Not enough" you replied, pushing yourself up to bite his bottom lip, urging him back down towards you.

He was probably the one bleeding this time, but he didn't care, the taste mixed perfectly with your tongue. The urgency with which you kissed him urged his hips to start moving, slamming into yours harder and harder.

His hands came to lift your hips to give him better leverage, while yours held on to his shoulders so you could let him. You had met only hours earlier and now Suguru had you practically folded in half, with scratches all around his back to prove how much you loved it.

"You ngh feel so good" you panted, drawing blood from him again, some of the red dripping against your cheek to contrast your beautiful skin.

Maybe it was because his senses were so much sharper, but he didn't remember sex ever feeling like that. So intimate, so… surrendered. Two deadly monsters rejoicing in pleasure together.

It was the beginning of something he hoped would never fade.

An eternity he finally felt happy about.

 "Why do you close your eyes?"

"What?" Suguru's head snapped back to you. There was still a faint trace of red where you had wiped it on your cheek; and he suspected on the tips of your fingers too, where they were interlaced with his. Suguru thought it better to not check, deciding to focus on your red eyes instead, and how they sparkled under the moonlight.

It was a night like any other. Hunting unaware passerby's, walking hand in hand back to your lair as if it was romantic.

You hated when he called it murder. So he didn't.

"When you feed" you answered, the breath coming out of your mouth and forming a haze all around. It was a cold winter, this one. The coldest one yet.

"Do I?" he mused, noticing he had never quite thought about it.

"You do" you replied. "And you avert your gaze when I feed too"

"Hm" his grip tightened around your hand, pulling you in closer ever so slightly. "I suppose it's because I don't enjoy it"

He didn't need to look to see the way your jaw had tightened. "You'd rather go hungry?" you scoffed.

"No, of course not" he replied. His thumb traced lazily over the top of your hand, soothing you – or himself. "Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it"

You stopped moving then, bringing him to a stop before you. You squinted your eyes, assessing him with a slight pout. Suguru's long fingers traveled to your jaw, gently wiping the red still there, letting the touch linger over your cold skin.

Suguru had seen you in every possible state in the months since you had been together – when you were naked and beautiful as an angel on top of him, crying from how good he made you feel; to dripping in blood and looking no more than a beast.

But he always found you beautiful.

Maybe that was a problem.

He didn't care.

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked, fighting against the lump in his throat that didn't want him to ask the question. He was sure nothing you said could make him see you different, but this was walking dangerously close.

To his surprise, you paused, tilting your head so your cheek would rest on his palm. Your eyes met his, but they weren't fully with him, something else clearly on your mind.

"I don't know" you answered, truthfully. "I never really thought about it"

That answer seemed to confuse him even more.

"You never thought about it?" he echoed, brushing his thumb over your skin.

You shook your head sideways in confirmation. "I suppose… it's just what I do" you murmured, and for a moment, you weren't there again.

Too lost in whatever memory your mind had locked you in.

Suguru didn't want to pry, but he also couldn't help wanting to know everything about you. "You never told me about your past" he said, more a suggestion than anything.

It was clearly the wrong move.

Your eyes suddenly snapped back to reality, not tender like they had just been – they locked on his with a hiss, and you stepped back from him like his touch burned.

"I'm sorry, I–"

"I don't want to talk about it" you interrupted, tone final and cold like a dagger right in his unbeating heart. Suguru put his hands up, not wanting to startle you further. If there was anyone who understood regrets, it would be him.

"I'm sorry" he said again, and you finally softened, letting your guard down little by little.

Your lips pursed sideways, annoyed with yourself at how easily Suguru got through your defenses. He half expected you to turn around and brave the night alone, maybe find another victim to take out the frustrations he brought out of you on.

But to his surprise, you moved closer.

A tiny step in his direction, too shy for your eyes to meet. But your forehead leaned in, resting on his shoulder, letting the weight of whatever was on your mind sink into him too.

Suguru tentatively brought his arms around your back, slowly, careful not to startle you. But you let him. Leaned further into him, accepted the embrace and even brought your own arms around him.

Your face was squished against his chest the tighter he held you, but you didn't dare move. Your breath had changed, he noticed as well, but he didn't dare move.

"I'm sorry" you said this time, voice small. Too small.

If Suguru didn't know you better, he'd think you were crying.

His hands slowly brushed your hair back, shushing you softly. Your hands gripped his shirt so tight they threatened to tear at the fabric, and with your strength, he knew you could easily do it.

Here, on this cold moonlit street, you finally let him in a little. Allowed him to see some of the pain you carried, despite not being able to voice it.

To Suguru, it was enough.

He would have held you like this forever, were it not for the police sirens bringing in the reminder of your brutal reality.

"We should go" you murmured, and your voice was cold as ice again.

 "Maybe we should go somewhere else" you suggested one night.

You were sprawled over the long sofa, completely naked, your arms stretched over your head where they began to hurt. Holding still wasn't exactly your forte.

Suguru lowered his pencil with a long exhale, looking at you with tired eyes. "You're distracting me, sweetheart" he chided.

You pouted, snapping back into position as he started drawing again with a grateful sigh. Over the years, Suguru had drawn you a million times, in every position imaginable – clothed, naked, happy, sad. All of those now hung proudly on the walls, every inch covered with images of you and times you had spent together.

You thought it was a lovely thing when it first started.

Now you were starting to get bored of it.

The years had passed but you didn't exactly change, did you?

Still, seeing how he focused to get every detail of your complexion right, every little line and crevice and perceived imperfection – it made it worth it again.

Sometimes you wished you could see yourself through Suguru's eyes.

What would it be like to love yourself in that way?

"Suguru" you called. His eyes left the page again, squinting at you, but he seemed to notice something was wrong from the way you called his name alone.

He placed his pencil down fully this time. "What is it?" he asked.

"Do you ever wish things were different?"

The words left your lips before you could really think about them. You saw his desire to come to you straight away, but Suguru wasn't one for unnecessary bursts of passion. No, he always though about what he said. Especially because any wrong move might risk losing you.

"I used to" he admitted, answering your question as truthfully as he could. He also didn't care for going into the long years he had spent alone and miserable, something you surely could understand.

"What changed?" you asked, pushing yourself to a more comfortable position.

"Well" he huffed out, a little shy. "I met you"

You blinked at him, feeling your cheeks warm. "Was that a good thing?" you huffed out self-deprecatingly, but his resolve continued.

"It was the best thing" he confessed.

There hadn't been many love confessions between you two through out the years.

Suguru would have told you a million times over, but he realised soon enough he shouldn't. It's not that it wasn't there, on the contrary – it's that acknowledging it was there would make it too real. Too breakable. Too easy to lose.

Love wasn't meant for creatures like the two of you.

"You mean that?" you asked, and Suguru calmly put his paper down, motioning you for come towards him.

You did, waltzing in his direction with no shame at the lack of clothes – he had seen you like that enough times already. When you finally approached, he opened his thick thighs for you to sit on, a hand already to your waist.

You fit so perfectly on his lap, felt so safe next to him like this. Your leaned your weight on him, resting your head on his as his thumb traced absentminded circles on your lower back.

"Look" he said, picking up the paper again. "Look at how beautiful you are"

Your eyes traveled to the picture, eyeing the person you had seen on paper multiple times but could not relate to in any form anymore.

"It's still the same" you murmured, the words cutting your insides like daggers. This curse had robbed you of ever seeing your face again, robbed you of the natural wonders of old age, of maturity, a body that reflected your soul.

You should have been old now. Hell, you should have been dead.

"It is" Suguru agreed, but he was smiling. His eyes darted all over the page, taking in the perceived beauty of the woman you didn't recognise. Your hands. Your curves. Your mother's eyes. All made beautiful under his pencil, but foreign. Distant. "Isn't that a good thing?"

You tensed immediately on top of him. "How is it a good thing?" you spat. "It's unnatural"

He turned to you immediately, his hand dropping the page and cupping your cheek instead. "Where is this coming from?" he asked, gentle, sweet like honey.

"I don't relate to it at all" you protested. "She's beautiful, yes, but I'm… it's not me"

"What do you mean?" he asked, brows furrowing close. One of his hands tightened around your waist, hoping to keep you close, while the other brushed gently just under your temple.

"I'm not beautiful. I'm a predator, I'm cursed" you kept repeating, your words getting more and more sharp despite how kindly he held you.

"You're not cursed" he argued, bringing your head to the crook of his neck. Despite all the fight in you, you let him.

"I am" you cried.

Suguru felt the cold little drops that escaped your eyes fall on his skin, just under where the bite marks that originally made him this way were. He held you tight, hoping it would be enough.

"You're not cursed" he repeated, kindly. "You're everything"

Suguru couldn't bear seeing the person who had made his existence bearable speak so low of herself. You were the one who made him see this as more – as a gift, even.

But you didn't see it that way.

And the way your breathing suddenly stopped and you pulled away made that very clear.

"Don't pretend you don't think I'm a monster" you growled, before pushing yourself off him completely. "I see the way you look at me"

"The way I looked at you?" he echoed, confused. Surely he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, because you were.

You were fully standing now, towering over him in your nakedness. Suguru could never not find you beautiful, but right now you reminded him of the power you truly held.

"Righteous Suguru, always feeling bad for his prey" you mocked, starting to wander around the room just to do something. "And horrible me, enjoying having my stomach filled"

"I never said that–"

"You don't have to" you scoffed. "You can't even bear to look at me"

How could you think that of him?

Hearing those words come out of your lips was unbearable. It was wrong.

"I don't like killing, it's true" he tried to reason. "But–"

"You call it killing" you interrupted. "We're feeding"

"It doesn't change the fact these people were–"

"We would be dead too if we didn't" your voice was rising louder and louder, a debate of morals Suguru never wanted to have with you. "Would you prefer that?"

"No, of course not" Suguru said too quick, coming closer to you. But you just kept going, voice rising higher and higher.

"Should we just walk into the sun to protect your conscience?" you mocked again, but the words got stuck in your throat, scratchy. They were meant to hurt, meant to challenge – but there was something far too real about the words you were saying. Like this was the only way you managed to actually utter them out loud.

Suguru understood that too.

"Don't say that" he pleaded with you. Not angry, not confrontational. Just… scared.

His sudden change made you stop pacing.

"You don't even look at me" you rasped out to the floor, like he wasn't even meant to hear it.

"I'm looking at you now" he tried.

But you just shook your head.

"If you can't accept all of me, what good does it do?" you murmured.

"But it's not you" he tried to reason. "If we weren't like this, you wouldn't choose to kill anyone, I'm sure, and–"

"You don't know what my life was like" you spat.

And it's true. He didn't.

"Because you never told me" he exhaled, unable to hide how much that fact hurt him.

How much longer would he have to wait for you to let him in? Were decades not enough?

"You have no right to know" you repeated what you had said many times already.

"I don't understand" it was his turn to lose his composure a little, that wound growing larger and larger now that the two of you were acknowledging it. "I would never think less of you"

"You already think less of me" you hissed, squaring up to him again.

Beautiful, and naked, but not vulnerable. You were strong like this, the way you made the energy shift in a room showing him how much power you had, no doubt accumulated by the amount of years you had spent as a vampire already.

But that was also speculation. Suguru didn't even know that.

"I don't" he said too quick, putting his hands up. "And I'm sorry, just don't…"

He was the one who trailed off this time, struggling with the words.

"Don't what?" you asked, the words biting into the space.

"Don't leave" he finally said.

You seemed… surprised.

Surely after all this time, it wouldn't be surprising.

But what were years for a vampire, after all? For all he knew, you saw him as no more than a chapter in the long novel of your life. Worst than that, he almost expected that to be the case. And Suguru was terrified of it.

"Why?" you asked.

Suguru noticed it was him who was crying this time, but his lips still formed a shy smile. "Because I love you"

Saying it felt easy than he had anticipated, the words he was so scared to utter just rolling off his tongue, sounding just right. But your red eyes grew wider than they ever had, your feet stumbling back like the words cut instead of soothe.

"You–" you almost tried to repeat them, but you couldn't.

Suguru stood there, unmoving, now that he had finally said it. He wouldn't walk back on them, not when it was the truth.

"I love you" he repeated.

Again, you flinched like you had been hurt. But you stopped moving back, just standing across from him in the middle of the room, chest heaving up and down, up and down.

"No one has ever said that to me"

Your voice was too small for how angry you were just a moment ago.

Suguru's hands balled into fists as he tried to control the urge to run to you. Pull you into his arms, hold you close with a gentleness you should have known centuries ago.

You looked like a cornered animal in the middle of the room, completely frozen. Your eyes were crying again, though you made no mention to dry them. The corner of your lips threatened to move, but to a frown or a smile, he didn't know. You didn't seem to know either.

But your eyes stayed lock on his unwavering, decided ones.

Suguru would stand here, unmoving, for another decade if it meant you trusted him because of it.

"How do you know?" you finally said, bringing a hand to wipe under your eyes.

He tried a step towards you then. "Because just looking at you makes me forget all the bad things that ever happened to me" he said. When you didn't flinch, he stepped forwards again. "Because your laugh is my favourite sound in the world"

You almost moved closer, a barely there shift of your weight forwards. He continued.

"Because laying in our small coffin together doesn't feel claustrophobic, it feels…safe" he almost laughed at himself, the ridiculousness of this vampiric love confession.

Maybe love wasn't meant for creatures like you, but he had found it anyway. And that was a miracle in and of itself.

"You make me feel like this life isn't just worth living, but worth sharing" he completed, standing right in front of you now. Your bottom lip bobbed a little where you struggled to contain your tears, but when his hand reached forwards to cup your cheek, you didn't stop him.

"And I don't see you as a monster" he whispered, thumb dragging along your skin to catch the tears. "Seeing you enjoy killing, it just… makes me wonder why"

Your breathing hitched at that, but you still did not move.

The two of you stood so close, your bodies bathing in the moonlight. It was getting late, and it would be dawn soon – but neither of you seemed to be thinking about that right now.

"I think…" you started, struggling with the words. "I think I might love you too"

Suguru didn't think he even remembered what it was like to feel this happy.

His fox like eyes went wide, his mouth hung open – his turn at surprise. For so long he was so worried you'd get bored of him, that maybe you were too wild a creature to choose this domestic eternity.

Even in his wildest dreams, he never dared to imagine you felt it too.

"Can you say that again?"

You smiled, bringing your hands to cup his face too. "I love you"

Suguru slammed his lips on yours, pulling you in for a desperate kiss that you both completely melted into.

This was what pure bliss felt like.

You loved him.

You loved each other.

Even following all your sins and your ungodly existence, he had found it. He had actually fucking found it. The two of you had just gone against all odds and conquered fate.

"I love you" he kept saying, while his pointed teeth grazed your bottom lip, while your hands held tight to his face, and your mouth's refused to part.

"I love you too" you echoed back, crying, and crying, and crying.

Suguru couldn't stop smiling – and you couldn't stop your tears.

Hadn't he been so absorbed in this miracle then, he might have guessed what happened next.

 You weren't there when he woke the next nightfall.

Suguru had grown used to your weight on top of his in the tight space, but he felt none of that when he started to blink his eyes awake. He called your name immediately, lifting the lid of the coffin with a loud creak, asking the void if you were there.

There was no response.

How could he have slept if you were not there? He would have surely woken up if you decided to leave before he did. Was he this lost in his own fantasy coming true? Had he slept too well?

The night was still young, you surely couldn't had gone far if you had just left when the sun went down.

Or… did you leave before that entirely?

Suguru's blood immediately ran cold. You wouldn't leave in the sunlight.

You wouldn't.

You knew what that could mean.

He paced the apartment with so much force his feet made the floor boards sink, but he was desperate. He had to find at least some hint, some clue of where you had gone, why you had gone.

Finally, he noticed something that wasn't meant to be there.

A different portrait sitting on the table, matching the walls full of you that decorated the space. But this one was of him – his long dark hair tied into a knot at the back of his head, his eyes looking far ahead, staring at something off the page.

He didn't remember posing for this, so it must have been made from memory.

Despite the years Suguru had spent teaching you to draw, you never seemed quite able to take it. You lacked the patience, you said. But this was a skillful drawing, no doubt something that would take long to master. Had you been working on it in secret for all this time?

What else did he not notice about you?

Suguru flipped the page around, finding the three words he had been so happy to hear the night before hastily scribbled on the back.

I love you

His response was immediate; Suguru's fist bunched up the drawing, and slammed it back on the table before he could damage it completely. It was a gift from you, he should love it. But where the hell were you?

If you loved him – why would you leave?

Because… you had, hadn't you? And all he had left of you was a portrait of himself and hundreds of images on the walls that now seemed to mock him.

He called your name once more, more pained this time. Maybe this was all a mistake, maybe he was just scared… but how did he feel it so deep in his soul, this truth he had spent years trying to deny?

Suguru's red eyes scanned the empty space, hoping for a sign of you, desperately praying to whoever was out there to listen.

But there was only the void again.

All those fears and assumptions he always had proving themselves true.

The worst thing for a vampire was to be alone. But there was also safety in that, wasn't there?

To love and loose was so much worse.

So, so much worse.

His knees gave out before his brain could keep him standing, loudly crashing onto the floor as every memory of you started storming his brain. He had kissed you on this floor many times, had made love to you right there on the first night you met.

Now it wasn't the sweat of your bodies and the blood you shared staining the wood, but his own desperate tears, falling in a cascade of grief he didn't think himself capable of feeling.

In feeling so much pain, Suguru wished desperately for that void again. To just feel nothing. Nothing was so much better than this.

But nothing wasn't an option anymore – you had made his life full only to tip it over the edge, letting it all spill into a wet mess similar to the one he was making on the floor.

Your name escaped his lips when he lowered his forehead down to the ground, his hands balling into fists next to his dark hair, coming loose all around his handsome features. How dare you give him life back, only to take it away again.

He slammed his fist against the floorboards, so loud the pictures of you rattled on the wall. There were so many – portraits that span years but the subject remained the same, remained beautiful, perfect.

How could you hate that? Suguru loved having you immortalised not just on paper, but in life itself.

It was a gift.

You were the one that made him see it that way.

Why had you changed your mind?

Why couldn't things just stay the same?

Forever.

You had made forever sound so nice.

Another fist hit the wood, his knuckles beginning to split. His skin would heal, but the depth of his mistake never would.

What a fool he was for confessing his love to you. Suguru knew what that would mean, how much it would frighten you – he knew, and still did it anyway.

Idiot.

Suguru couldn't bring himself to throw the next punch, choosing to curl inwards instead, into himself, away from everything else.

He shouldn't have said anything.

What a stupid fucking mistake.

Maybe all of this.

All of it was a mistake.

He couldn't outrun fate, after all.

But pretending sure felt nice.

Suguru finally pushed himself up, making a point to look at every image that decorated the walls. He remembered each one, what the conversation had been about, what you had been doing earlier in the night before he decided the moment was too precious not to capture.

Suguru found himself looking for a specific one, though – that first one. The one that had gained him your trust, your love.

He could have sworn it was still inside his sketchbook.

He turned page after page after page, growing increasingly annoyed that he couldn't find it. Despair turning into anger, looking for any form of release it could find. Until he finally noticed a tear at the corner of the page, right where it should have been.

Had you taken it with you?

His breathing stopped, swollen eyes focusing on the careful way the page had been torn from his book, his finger grazing along it with the devotion he would caress your skin.

In the many years you spent together, you had never once mentioned the image – not after that first night.

Did it mean as much to you as it meant for him?

Suguru's hands closed around the notebook, shutting it tight and bringing it to his chest. It was at least one more proof that you didn't lie when expressing your love for him. That maybe leaving was as hard for you as it was for him.

And among the pain in his chest where his heart should have been beating, Suguru understood.

Being alone was far less scary than love.

What he saw as an act of cowardice, maybe you saw as an act of kindness. Choosing you'd rather be alone than to face the end of this love you didn't think you deserved, his hatred you saw as inevitable.

So you left. Your version of compassion, learnt from a world who had never showed you that in the first place.

You wanted him to hate you, didn't you?

He couldn't do that.

This would be his last act of rebellion against this evil world that had made you this way.

This cursed fate he didn't seem able to escape.

Suguru would love you still.

And he would find you.

 Time was a blessing as well as a curse. Suguru had an infinite amount – but each strike of the clock dragged longer than it had before, every coming dawn seemed to linger, every passing season reminding him of what he had lost.

The winter you left eventually turned into summer, longer days meaning shorter nights – less opportunities to look for you.

But Suguru didn't give up hope.

He wandered the streets for as long as he could, every single night, just hoping for your scent. He visited places you had gone to together, wishing he'd find you on the park bench near the churchyard, or the cemetery behind it, among the bones of people who had found peace in death, unlike the two of you.

Suguru even visited your known hunting spots, the seedy alleyways just out of town that tended to harbor criminals and people who wouldn't be missed by society. It was a suggestion Suguru had made, and that you had agreed to. It made what you had to do more bearable, but he still hated every second.

When he finally reached the location, you weren't there. Suguru had hoped to at least hear rumours and whispers about recent kills around this spot, some urban legend beginning to grow that he could tie back to you; but still… nothing.

Had you gone back to preying on whoever you could put your hands on? Was his odd moral compass another thing you resented him for?

"You seem lost, boy" a voice came from right behind him, distinctively not yours. The sharp metal sound of a blade came along with it, as Suguru heard the footsteps approaching – slowly, deliberately.

This man clearly had the wrong idea of who prey and predator were.

Suguru took a sharp inhale in, hating this man for interrupting his search. He turned around, slowly, the reds of his eyes making the man come to a halt a mere feet away.

"You sick or something?" the man scoffed, clearly intrigued by his appearance.

Suguru just stood there. His hands had balled into fists as he inhaled he man's scent. He was hungry, so hungry, and hated the way he looked down at him. Had you been here, you would undoubtedly already have a twisted smile on your face, excited to gorge on the stranger's blood.

"That's a nice coat you've got there" the man mocked, making the knife visible now. It glistened where it caught the light, making sure Suguru could see it too.

A pathetic threat, Suguru rolled his eyes internally.

This man sure had chosen the wrong time for this, because Suguru's blood was already running cold with anger. And he caught himself thinking, just for a moment… that he would enjoy this kill.

No.

This was a line he didn't want to cross.

"You deaf or just stupid?" the man laughed this time, closing the distance.

Another breath in, slowly while the man approached. It didn't matter how hungry, angry, lost Suguru was – he couldn't bring himself to enjoy feeding, would never forgive himself if he lost this last shred of humanity he still was proud of. He couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't–

But when the man brought the knife to his throat, it was too easy.

Suguru turned around in the blink of an eye, taking his fangs to the tall man's neck as his body effortlessly pinned him down, bringing the two down to the wet pavement in the process.

Blood, tears and sweat spilled everywhere, while Suguru enjoyed the way the much bigger man thrashed beneath him, helpless.

Is this what you wanted all along? For him to be just like you?

It wasn't merciful, and it wasn't clean. This was rage personified, but in the moment he swallowed the sweet taste, Suguru didn't care.

It wouldn't be the last of his kills like this.

In fact, there would be many, many more throughout the years.

He hated himself for it every single time after, sometimes crying next to the limp body he had just ravished, sometimes throwing it all up again. Suguru felt shame at his lack of control, at this blinding rage that made him the monster he tried so hard not to be.

It took him years before he finally decided he couldn't do it anymore.

You had spoken about wanting to leave this pathetic town before, and maybe it was time for him to accept you probably had.

That after a decade of this, you wouldn't be showing up at your shared home anymore.

The place had been cold since you left, but in every sense it still remained the same. The furniture hadn't been moved, the curtains were still the same though faded and full of spider webs now. And, most importantly – your face still adorned the walls.

Suguru knew you probably had left town entirely, but he just couldn't bring himself to leave this.

The home you two had made, in spite of everything.

Did you still remember? Or did you try not to?

Did you hold on to that first drawing and cry, like he did? Reminisce about the good times and the worst times, miss his touch and the way you held each other in that tight coffin?

In the years that passed, Suguru even tried to hate you. Tried to give you what you wanted.

But he just couldn't.

What he hated was how much he regretted confessing his love, the single greatest mistake of his existence. Was hearing those three words leave your lips worth the years of solitude that would come after?

Maybe.

His long fingers ghosted over your face in one of the drawings – one in which you had a rare, easy smile. Had you found someone else who would paint you like he did?

Suguru knew he was only tormenting himself at this point; it was no use lingering on the thought. If he knew you as well as he thought he did, then he was sure you hadn't just found another person to give your heart to.

He believed what you said that night.

You didn't leave because you didn't love him, you left because you loved him too much. Suguru would have to find some comfort in that.

 Seeing the world change was a miracle, one thing that did console him. The streets changed just as often as the seasons did now, every day bringing new inventions and curious new ideas Suguru enjoyed learning about.

He found himself sitting by the park more and more often now, drawing the outline of new buildings that began construction far ahead. The future seemed to look brighter than anyone could have hoped for.

But despite the obvious changes to the outside, his inside world remained the same. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

He had found some peace in the fact that you could find him there, if you wanted. And it didn't matter if it took another decade, or half a century or more – Suguru would stay right here, waiting.

His fingers dragged the chalk over the page, marking the coming of a new age.

When you returned, he'd show it to you. He documented every little thing about this town just so he could share it, and he was hopeful the time would come.

Can you believe they were building shops in the alleys you used to hunt? And how the church had been rebuilt, much larger, after the fire five years prior?

Life changed all around – beautifully so, tragically so too.

But the seasons always came. Winter, then summer again, and just like he could trust in that, he trusted what would come after too. It was a better position to be in than the desperate animal he had become for a few years.

But he would have never wanted you to see him like that, and so, he changed. He–

Suguru's hands dropped the drawing suddenly, his spine going rigid in the blink of an eye.

That smell. He knew that smell.

He inhaled deeply again, shutting his eyes tight, focusing on it.

It couldn't be.

The scent he had almost feared he had forgotten.

Your name escaped his lips in a sound much smaller than he expected, which turned into a desperate cry as Suguru began to turn around, searching for any glimpse of you.

The scent was present, but it was still far away – he had to follow it. Fast.

The picture he was working so precisely on got scrunched up when he rushed to pick up his belongings, shoving it all in his pockets as he began to ran.

Probably wasn't the best to bring attention to himself like this, but Suguru couldn't stop.

He kept moving, letting his senses guide him as he rushed past the night owls and confused strangers. Turning a corner here, going through someone's garden there – he feared he lost it completely when the smell almost faded at the edge of the city, but he turned around again.

Where could you possibly be going? Were you looking for your regular hunting grounds of almost a century past?

Things were different now, didn't you know?

But no, it wasn't that – the smell faded again, and so he followed it back to the main road, finding it again.

It grew stronger and stronger with each step, until it led to the last place he expected.

Home.

It was undeniably strong, so much so his nerve endings were staring to prickle, like they only did when another one of him was around. Suguru rushed up the steps, jumping two at a time, throwing the door open, and–

There you were.

Was it a dream? Or had death finally come for him?

You looked exactly the same. Standing there, staring at the wall of your face with a much smaller paper held tight to your chest.

Suguru remained completely frozen, struggling to catch his breath. When you turned to him, he noticed you had tears in your eyes.

"You kept them?" you whispered, your beautiful bottom lip trembling slightly. The first words he had heard from you in years, and they were a question you obviously should have expected the answer to.

Suguru finally took a step inside, closing the door behind him. He couldn't bring himself to meet you there, even though everything in him wanted to pick you up and wipe your tears and kiss you everywhere.

"Of course I did" was all he managed to reply, but it only made you cry harder.

You brought a hand to dry your face, and Suguru desperately wished you'd just let him. But he was so terrified of making the wrong move again.

"I'm sorry–"

That he couldn't bear to hear.

Against better judgment, Suguru rushed forwards, towards you, needing to touch you to confirm you were real. His body found yours with too much strength, but you completely gave in to it, closing your arms around his shoulders when he closed his over your waist.

You were here again.

Your feet left the floor when he raised you to his level, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as you did the same, both letting the tears flow unabashedly. Your legs came to lock around his waist, pulling him into you completely, the one thing Suguru wanted most in the whole world.

"You came back" he cried into your hair.

"I needed to see it again" you replied, his clothes bunching up in your fists.

"See what?" Suguru asked, pulling back just a little. His nose brushed against yours, so close he could just kiss you, but he wanted to hear your voice even more than that.

"Home" you replied, looking him right in his red eyes. "I didn't think you'd be here"

His eyes held you tighter, his forehead pressing against your. "Where else would I go?"

"Anywhere that didn't remind you of me" you tried a small self deprecating laugh, but Suguru shook his head, forehead rolling against yours.

"I've been waiting for you this whole time"

You cried, cupping his face with both hands. "Don't lie to me, Suguru Geto" you pouted.

"I have never lied to you" he replied.

It was the truth.

It was you that closed the distance this time, urging his face forwards as you leaned in for a kiss. It wasn't desperate like he had imagined, no, it was gentle. Feather light, almost. Far too small for something that was so huge, but also exactly what you needed.

It lasted for the blink of an eye and for an eternity – just a moment in time where everything was just right again.

"I'm sorry I left" you whispered, breaking the kiss and placing your forehead back on his. "I'm sorry I got scared"

"I know" he kissed your cheek, smoothing your hair back. "It's ok"

"It's not" you lowered yourself down, sinking into his chest this time.

"Shh" he kept smoothing down your hair, holding you tight against him, right where his heart should be beating. Getting used to your scent again was salvation for him, but there was also something different about you, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, tilting your chin towards him. You nodded your head up and down, some sort of shame deep within your eyes. "We still have some time before dawn, if you want to–"

"I don't hunt anymore" you replied, looking down. "Not people"

Suguru's eyebrows knit together, pulling you up to look at him again. "What do you mean?"

To his surprise, you cried. And just kept crying. Harder than he had ever seen.

"I guess I realised–" you tried to say between hiccups. "Maybe someone loves them too"

Suguru's mouth hung open, in complete surprise. You coming back was something he had hoped for and convinced himself to believe in, but this? This he could have never fathomed.

"You–" he didn't even know what to say, choosing to crouch down in front of you instead and pull you down with him, giving your legs some rest so maybe they'd stop shaking.

"I'm sorry, Suguru" you cried, throwing yourself at him. "I'll tell you why, I'll tell you what happened, I'll tell you everything, just please– please, forgive me"

Suguru stood sentinel while you sobbed, holding you tight. Didn't you know? He had never blamed you for it.

He understood your pain far too well for it.

"I would be glad to listen" he said into your hair, arms closed around your back. "If you want to tell me"

You nodded your head, clawing at his back like he was your salvation.

For a very long time, Suguru could only speculate on what had happened to make you the way you were. But right now, he found his curiosity was the last thing on his mind.

"Here" he said, pulling an arm from you to bring it to his fangs. The blood started dripping from it, as you watched from below while he did for you what you had done for him that first night you met. "You should eat first"

You smiled at his generosity, but brought yourself up again to better match his height. You cupped his cheeks again, leaning in for another kiss, realising there was still something much more important you wanted to say and hear.

"I love you, Suguru"

"I love you too" he kissed you back.

In time, Suguru would show you his sketches depicting how this town had changed, his little documentations of every day life he had hoped to share with you. He would listen to every single thing you wanted to tell him, he'd hold you close when it was too hard to say, and he'd shush you kindly whenever you tried to force words you weren't ready for just yet.

There was so much still to be said, and time was, of course, a luxury you both had.

But right now… in this moonlit night in the apartment you had made a home of so many years ago, the silence was just enough.

A/N oof this one really took a long time to write. I started writing this when I was in a very bad place, and found it very therapeutic to just blurt it out on the page – it unfortunately also meant it was extremely hard to go back to it when I started feeling better (which I am!). there's so much of me in both these characters so it makes me a little nervous to post but maybe you relate as well, and if that's the case I'd like you to know you're not alone! hope you all have the most wonderful day or night and thank you for reading my story <3

You glanced at a young woman walking past you, her high-pitched laughter ringing like glass breaking. The diamond hair clip holding back her sleek locks probably cost more than your entire wardrobe combined.

The entire venue felt like a poorly directed drama. The women were dressed beautifully, throwing their heads back to laugh at utterly mundane jokes, while the men stood beside them like rigid ornaments in tailored black Armani suits looking bland.

Moving with unhurried steps, you began weaving through the crowd. You kept your posture relaxed, blending into the background as you pretended to admire the displayed paintings lining the walls. Draw too much attention, and you were dead in the water. You didn't know a soul here, and you had sneaked past the perimeter security without a formal invitation. If you got caught, it would be an embarrassment.

Your mission for the evening wasn't to admire the historical art but rather to secure an illicit, Heian-era cursed relic that had slipped into the black market, set to be sold at a private auction for the world's most corrupt billionaires.

To fit the dress code, you were wearing a deep navy silk dress that fell elegantly around your ankles, your hair styled into a flawless updo that took you hours of watching tutorials on youtube. But beneath the soft fabric of the skirt, two knives were strapped securely to your thighs. You were just waiting for the curtain to rise.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a subtle shift in the room's momentum. A small, select group of high-profile guests began detaching themselves from the main floor, heading toward a private staircase at the back of the mansion.

The auction.

You waited a few agonizing minutes, letting them gain some distance before you casually drifted toward the stairs, keeping your movements entirely inconspicuous. As you reached the top landing, you carefully peeked around the corner. Your chest tightened.

Shit.

Two burly, jacked guards stood directly in front of a pair of heavy doors. Knocking them out wasn't an option, it would alert the entire estate before you could even lay eyes on the relic. Your only play was to act like you belonged there, to fake the kind of supreme confidence that these billionaires possessed.

Before you could move, a man rounded the corner, walking straight toward the guards. He was absurdly tall, his white hair catching the dim hall light, and he was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. Indoors? At a night party? Who wears sunglasses inside? Blind people. And douchebags, you thought, rolling your eyes.

But he was your ticket in.

Slipping into the shadow of his massive frame, you hurried forward, matching his long strides without making a single sound. You stepped right behind his shoulder, smoothing down your navy dress as if you were his date. When you reached the threshold, the guards took one look at the white-haired man, bowed their heads instantly, and threw the doors open. They glanced at you for a split second, but you didn't give them a single shred of eye contact, breezing past them with your chin held high.

Too easy.

The crowd inside was dispersing to find their assigned plush velvet seats. You had zero intention of sitting down, you didn't have the kind of money to outbid these people, nor did you have the patience to sit through a three-hour wealth flex. Spotting a door marked for staff on the side of the hall, you smoothly stepped through it, betting it would lead backstage or directly to the holding room for the antiques.

You were right.

The room was vast, filled with glass cases displaying artifacts that looked like they belonged in a state museum. Rubies, emeralds, and intricate ancient patterns gleamed under the bright lights. This was raw history, stolen from the past and packaged as a decoration for a billionaire's living room.

You walked deeper into the room, closing your eyes slightly as you reached out with your senses, searching for a cursed energy signature dense enough to make your skin crawl. It didn't take long. In the center of the room, a thick suffocating aura was practically oozing through the air. Honestly, it was a miracle the ambient negative emotions hadn't manifested a swarm of curses in the room yet.

Hurrying forward, you carefully lifted the glass casing off the pedestal.

Your eyebrows raised in slight disappointment. You had imagined a massive gold chalice or a sword, but resting on the velvet cushion was a simple, unadorned gold ring. Eh, whatever. Retrieve it, get paid, and finally take that vacation. It was finally getting hot, maybe you'd fly to Bali this time and spend a month doing absolutely nothing on a beach.

The moment your fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the ring, the air behind you shifted.

Before your brain could even register the threat, a massive, solid weight slammed into your back, driving you violently into the concrete wall. The impact knocked the wind clean out of your lungs, a large hand instantly pinning you by the throat.

 Oh, shit. Did the guards actually catch me?

Your mind raced, your fingers tightening around the ring. It didn't matter. You could easily incapacitate a couple of human guards, shatter the window, and vanish into the night. But as your eyes adjusted to the light, you found yourself staring at the man from the hallway. The douchebag with the sunglasses.

He didn't give you time to breathe. He released your throat, launching a blindingly fast punch straight toward your face.

Adrenaline surging, you sidestepped the blow, the force of his fist parting the air next to your ear with a sharp whoosh that cracked the concrete behind you. You dropped low, driving a heavy kick toward his midsection, but he was fast, unbelievably faster than any normal human. He caught your ankle mid-air, twisted his wrist, and forcefully pushed you back down onto the floor, splintering the polished wood beneath you.

As you braced yourself against the floor, you felt it. A sudden, massive pressure of cursed energy radiating from his core. It was so suffocatingly dense, that it made the air in the room vibrate.

Oh. 

He wasn't a normal security guard. He was a sorcerer.

The man slowly reached up, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. In the dim light of the vault, his eyes gleamed a brilliant impossible blue that looked entirely otherworldly.

Gojo Satoru.

You could recognize those eyes anywhere. Everyone in the Jujutsu world could. The legendary Six Eyes were staring down at you, a smug, insufferable smirk stretching across his attractive face.

"What's a beauty like you doing here stealing?" he asked, his voice dripping with an annoying, casual amusement as he looked down at you.

You didn't bother answering. Gritting your teeth, you scrambled to your feet and threw a heavy punch straight toward his nose.

And then, your fist stopped.

It simply hovered inches away from his skin, completely immobilized by an invisible distance. Oh, of course. Infinity.

You stared at your frozen fist, intentionally letting your expression drop into a look of profound, wide-eyed confusion. Across from you, Gojo’s smirk grew even wider, his chest puffing out slightly. Look at this dude, you thought, a wave of profound annoyance washing over you. He really thinks he's the center of the universe.

You slowly pulled your hand back, keeping the confused act up. If you played dumb enough, an arrogant man like Gojo Satoru would undoubtedly start gloating to feed his own ego. The second he opened his mouth to give a grand speech about his godhood, you would slip past him and dive out the nearest exit. After all, the ring was still firmly clutched in your palm.

"Cat got your tongue?" Gojo asked, leaning his massive frame closer to you, his eyes locking onto your hand. "I believe you have something I need, butterfingers."

Your mind fractured into a dozen questions. The Higher-Ups explicitly sent me to retrieve this relic. Why the hell would they send the Six Eyes to do the exact same job?

Whatever. You weren't giving it up. You had worked too hard for your Bali vacation to let a egotistical Tokyo celebrity steal your paycheck.

Ducking low, you sprinted backward around the rows of antique cases, trying to cut the distance between you and the exit. But your movement was entirely useless against him. In a blur of a second, Gojo teleported directly into your path, his fist moving in a blur. The heavy strike caught you across the jaw, throwing you sideways.

You hit the floor, tasting copper. You reached up, wiping a thin line of blood from your split lip. You weren't losing this fight. Your hand reached down to your thigh, your fingers wrapping around the hilt of your knife. With a fluid, lethal motion, you whipped your arm forward, launching the blade in the air straight toward his face.

Gojo didn't even bother to dodge. He stood there, hands casually tucked into his pockets, a look of supreme, arrogant boredom on his face as he waited for the knife to bounce off his Infinity.

The blade cut through the air.

Slice.

Gojo’s head snapped back slightly as the knife flew past him, embedding itself deep into the wall behind him. For a second, there was absolute silence. Then, a thin, crimson line opened up across his pale cheek. A single droplet of blood welled up, trickling down his skin.

Gojo’s smirk completely vanished. His sky-blue eyes widened to the size of saucers, his mouth falling slightly open as he reached up, his long fingers touching the wet blood on his cheek.

You knew exactly what was going on inside his brain. How did a physical weapon bypass the concept of Infinity?

He didn't realize that the moment his hand had gripped your throat earlier, your innate technique had already silently taken root. You were a walking dead-zone. Your cursed technique allowed you to cancel out any technique for a while upon touch. It had subtly latched onto his energetic signature, slowly dismantling his defense the longer he stayed near you. 

Now, it was your turn to smirk. You gave him a cold, mocking grin, turning on your heel to sprint toward the massive stained-glass window at the end of the hall.

Before you could even take three steps, a terrifying pressure grabbed you from behind, forcefully dragging you back into the center of the room. Gojo was right on your heels, his playful persona entirely gone. His eyes were dangerously sharp, his jaw set in a hard, lethal line.

Damn, you thought, blocking a heavy kick with both of your forearms. So the great Satoru Gojo actually gets serious the second someone messes up his perfect face?

 He drove a heavy, devastating kick toward your ribs. You brought both arms up, the sheer force of his impact shattering the gold bracelet on your wrist and sending you crashing violently into an ancient marble display stand, which shattered into a thousand pieces under your weight.

You rolled to your feet just as his fist came down where your head had been, pulverizing the floor. The fight turned into a brutal, high-speed train of violence. You kept up with his pace, matching his stroke for stroke. A kick from him was met with a sweeping counter from you. He lunged forward, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his fingers digging in with bruising force as he tried to pry the gold ring from your hand.

"Give it up!" Gojo hissed, his voice dark and completely stripped of his usual humor.

"In your dreams!" you snarled back, twisting your wrist and throwing a brutal headbutt straight into his chest.

You pulled back with everything you had, your muscles straining against his iron grip. The mutual, violent tugging caused the ring to slip from both of your hands, tumbling through the air.

An absolute explosion of dark cursed energy erupted from the gold band. The shockwave was so immense that both you and Gojo were violently launched in opposite directions, your bodies slamming heavily into opposite sides of the walls.

The spatial backfire was catastrophic. Gojo’s infinity reacted violently to the relic's discharge that shattered every single glass display case, lightbulb, and the stained-glass window in the room. A deafening roar of exploding glass echoed through the night.

The breath got completely stuck in your throat as you collapsed onto the floor, coughing violently. Your vision swam, your spine radiating a sharp, blinding pain from the impact with the wall. 

Fuck, you thought, pushing yourself up onto your hands and knees. I want my vacation, but I don't want to die for it.

Across the ruined room, Gojo was pushing himself up, his face looking absolutely pissed, his white hair messy and speckled with glass dust.

From the hallway outside, you could hear the heavy thud of security guards rushing toward the vault, the alarms blaring a deafening siren. The sheer volume of your fight had completely compromised the mission.

You didn't look back. Dragging yourself to the shattered frame of the window, you threw yourself out into the dark night air. As you plummeted toward the garden below, you flooded your legs with cursed energy, reinforcing your bones to absorb the impact as your feet hit the grass. Behind you, the sounds of distant gunshots and shouting echoed from the upper levels of the mansion.

Gojo Satoru can handle that mess, you thought, sprinting hard toward the perimeter of the estate.

The very millisecond your boots crossed the outer boundary line of the property, your world imploded.

You fell hard to your knees, the wet grass soaking through your dress. Your heart felt like it was being physically ripped out of your chest cavity by a pair of hot tongs. The air in your throat solidified, your own cursed energy twisting inward, violently trying to cancel out your own life force. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't scream.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the agony vanished.

You gasped, drawing a massive, ragged breath into your burning lungs, your hands trembling against the dirt. What the hell?

Before your brain could process the terrifying flash of agony, a heavy hand grabbed the fabric of your navy dress from behind, forcefully yanking you backward. You reacted on pure instinct, twisting your torso to drive a lethal kick into the chest of the person behind you.

It was Gojo.

He absorbed the kick, his hands gripping your shoulders, but before either of you could launch into another round of violence, automatic gunfire tore through the trees. The security detail had tracked you to the woods.

Gojo instantly let go of your dress, his white hair flashing in the dark as both of you sprinted into the deep brush, dodging the incoming rain of bullets. You took a series of sharp, erratic turns through the winding paths of the forest, desperately trying to lose both the guards and the insufferable sorcerer hounding your footsteps.

You veered sharply to the right. Gojo took a hard left.

The moment the distance between you stretched past a specific threshold, the invisible weight clamped down on your chest again.

You collapsed into the mud, clutching your chest as your energy violently turned against your organs. From the darkness a few meters behind you, a heavy, pained groan echoed through the trees. You forced your head up, squinting through the dark.

Gojo Satoru was down on his knees in the dirt, his large hands clutching at his own chest, his head dropped low. The veins in his neck were pulsing violently, looking as though they were about to pop straight through his skin. He was in just as much agonizing pain as you were.

Gojo slowly, agonizingly dragged himself back toward your direction, his teeth gritted as he fought the suffocating pressure. Step by step, as he closed the physical distance between you, the agonizing pain in your lungs began to recede, completely vanishing the moment he stood over your trembling form.

The second the suffocation stopped, the hostility returned. You scrambled up, throwing a sharp left hook toward his jaw, which he blocked with a heavy sweep of his forearm, driving a counter-punch toward your ribs. It was an endless, exhausting loop of violence.

"Truce?" you choked out, your voice hoarse as the distinct sound of flashlight beams and shouting guards began to close in on your position again.

Gojo looked at you, his face still tight with remnants of rage, but as the shouting grew closer, his expression suddenly shifted. The murderous tension evaporated in a split second, and that insufferable, loose-limbed slouch returned to his posture. He grabbed the back of your neck with a tight, unyielding grip.

"Hold your breath, butterfingers" Gojo chirped, his voice snapping back into that lousy tone.

"Wait, what."

Before you could finish the thought, a blinding, terrifying surge of his cursed energy enveloped your entire field of vision. The ambient space warped so violently that your stomach flipped, the dark woods vanishing in a silent flash of blue light.

The sudden shift left your ears popping. You staggered slightly as your boots hit the grass, your hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the remaining knife strapped to your thigh. Your eyes darted across the environment, tracking traditional wooden buildings and a wide, sweeping courtyards surrounded by dense forest.

Tokyo Jujutsu High. 

"Nice view, right?" Gojo’s voice cut through the quiet, immediately triggering a spike of annoyance in your chest. He had already released his grip on the back of your neck and was standing a few paces away, brushing non-existent dirt off. 

He slid his dark sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose, completely covering his eyes though the wide, smug grin on his face remained fully visible.

You took a deliberate step backward, your eyes locked on his posture, testing the boundaries of whatever invisible string had just dragged you both to your knees earlier.

One step. Two steps. Three.

"Oh? Going somewhere?" Gojo asked, crossing his arms, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. "Because I wouldn't recommend taking a walk right now."

You ignored him, taking a fourth long stride backward.

Instantly, the phantom weight clamped down on your chest. The cursed energy inside your core twisted, turning into a dead weight that felt like it was trying to cave your ribs inward. Across from you, Gojo’s smirk instantly shattered. His hand shot to his own sternum, his jaw tightening as his shoulders tensed against a visible wave of pain.

You both froze, staring at each other across the grass, tracking the exact distance where the air turned to poison. You took a heavy, deliberate step forward, re-entering the safe zone, and the suffocating pressure vanished.

"Alright," you choked out, wiping a trace of grime from your chin. "Seems like the relic binded us."

Gojo took a long, exaggerated breath, shaking out his arms as his pain receded. The smirk crept right back onto his face, wider and more obnoxious than before. "Wow! Look at you, making big brain diagnoses. But yeah, you’re totally right. My Six Eyes can see it now. There’s a little string of cursed energy running right from my chest to yours. It’s like an invisible leash. Which means..."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, his sunglasses sliding down just enough to flash a mocking eye.

"...you’re officially stuck with me, butterfingersl. Everywhere I go, you go. Pretty romantic, huh? The universe must really want us to be together."

"I would rather eat glass," you said flatly.

Gojo let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, tossing his head back. "How cruel! And after I saved us from those scary Kyoto guards, too! You’re totally ungrateful." He slouched, his tone dropping a fraction.

"But seriously, we can't break it out here. My Reverse Cursed Technique can heal physical wounds, but it can't untangle a conceptual soul-bind. We need a specialist. Someone who deals with the messy, biological side of jujutsu. Let's go see Shoko."

You walked past him without waiting for his lead, the slit of your torn navy silk dress whispering against your ankles. Gojo hummed a mindless, cheerful tune, quickly falling into step right beside you. His long strides effortlessly matched your quick, efficient pace.

As you navigated the labyrinth of traditional wooden corridors, the physical proximity was bizarre. Because you were walking less than a meter apart, Gojo's Infinity remained entirely deactivated on his left side. The fabric of his suit brushed casually against your shoulder with every turn. He was completely open to your presence, a fact that his Six Eyes were undoubtedly tracking with intense focus, though he kept his hands casually thrown behind his head.

Your eyes were fixed forward, your mind already thinking of every possible explanation.

"You know," Gojo said, his voice echoing slightly in the concrete hallway of the medical wing, "most people are a lot more talkative when they're bound to the strongest sorcerer in the world. You haven't asked for my autograph once. I'm deeply offended."

"I am calculating how much your presence is going to delay my schedule," you replied, your voice an unbothered, deadpan baseline. "So far, you’ve cost me a business class plane ticket and a vacation. Don't add a headache to the list."

Gojo let out a delighted, barking laugh, kicking open the heavy frosted-glass door at the end of the hall. "A tough crowd! Shoko, look what I brought you! And she’s completely mean to me!"

The medical room was pristine, smelling strongly of rubbing alcohol and a faint tobacco smoke. Metal cabinets lined the walls, and several high-end monitors sat hummed quietly in the corner. Sitting at a large metal desk in a spinning chair was Shoko Ieiri. She was wearing her standard white lab coat, dark circles hanging under her tired eyes, a pen resting between her index and middle fingers.

She didn't look up from her paperwork immediately. "Satoru, if you're here to steal my glucose packs again, I'm going to lace the next batch with.."

Shoko paused. Her gaze drifted from her clipboard, landing first on Gojo's face.

The white-haired sorcerer was leaning against the doorframe, a massive grin on his lips, but across his left cheek was the sharp, dried crimson line of the cut you had given him. Shoko’s eyes narrowed slightly, her posture shifting from complete boredom to curiosity. She slowly looked past Gojo, her analytical gaze taking in your mud-stained navy dress, your updo that was now slightly undone and the unbothered demeanor you carried.

"Well," Shoko murmured, leaning back in her chair and taking a slow drag of her cigarette, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "This is a historical day. Someone actually managed to make Satoru bleed. And you brought her right to my office. Should I prepare a crime scene report or a wedding registry?"

"She's a thief, Shoko!" Gojo whined theatrically, walking into the room and immediately hopping up to sit on the edge of her examination table, swinging his long legs like a child. "A very mean, very dangerous thief who broke a perfectly good antique and ruined my favorite suit. And now she's holding me hostage!"

"You teleported me here," you said flatly, walking into the room and stopping a precise two meters away from the table. You pulled out a rolling stool, sat down, and crossed your legs, resting your hands in your lap.

"Ieiri. I am here for a diagnostic scan on a Heian-era relic. I need the raw energetic frequency sheets so I can compile a counter-formula and get the hell away from him."

Shoko looked at you, then at Gojo, who was watching you from the table with an intense, quiet curiosity behind his sunglasses. The doctor let out a dry, amused chuckle.

"I’ve heard of you, cancelling out techniques right?" Her voice dripped with  appreciation and admiration. She stood up, her lab coat fluttering as she walked toward the monitors. "No wonder his infinity failed. You're the first person I've ever met who can force his Infinity down."

She reached into a cabinet, pulling out two sets of thin, metallic bands attached to long wires. She walked over to you first, her movements completely professional.

"This is a non-invasive scan," Shoko explained, as she offered you the band. "It won't inject any foreign cursed energy into your system. It just reads the frequency of your core and compares it to his. If we're lucky, it's just a superficial energetic knot. If we're unlucky..."

She glanced at Gojo, who was already wrapping his own metallic band around his wrist, surprisingly cooperative.

"...it's a deep-core soul fusion. Snap the band around your left wrist. Let's see exactly how messy this is going to get." 

Shoko flipped a heavy metallic switch on the side of the console. The monitor groaned to life with a high-pitched static electricity that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. Digital waveforms began to crawl across the screen as they processed the raw data from the metallic bands wrapped around your wrists.

The waveforms began to overlap, twisting around each other into a dense, spiralling knot that perfectly mirrored a double helix.

Shoko leaned forward, resting her elbows on the console, her smirk slowly fading into a narrow-eyed squint. She pulled a fresh cigarette from her pocket but didn't light it.

"Well," Shoko murmured, her voice entirely devoid of its earlier humor. "Look at the readings," Shoko said, her voice dropping into a calm register. "The relic anchored itself directly to your souls. Right now, you two are locked in a perfect, involuntary loop."

"Meaning what, exactly?" you asked, your voice deadpan, though your fingers began their slow, rhythmic tap tap tap against your knee.

"Meaning if you try to forcefully cut this link with reverse cursed technique, the curse will fight back. The resulting collision will blow this entire school straight to the surface.”

Gojo hummed from the wall, tilting his head back against the concrete. "And what about the suffocating thing, Shoko? It felt like my lungs were full of wet concrete."

"Because your souls are locked together, you have a strict radius. The moment you cross that boundary line, the curse tenses. Your heart rate stutters, your lungs seize up, and your body starts shutting down. In short? If either of you tried to run away or cross that line permanently... you're both going to choke each other to death in a ditch." Shoko said, tapping the paper. 

"Wow! Did you hear that, butterfingers?" Gojo chirped, his voice instantly bouncing back into that loud insufferable tone. He slid down from the table, effortlessly entering your personal space. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose to flash those impossibly bright, mocking blue eyes.

"We're literally soulmates! The machine just proved it! It’s basic science!" Gojo teased, a massive, obnoxious smirk stretching across his face. He reached out a long, pale finger, aiming right for your cheek. "Maybe this is a sign. I’ll take you to a theme park for our first date. We can wear matching headbands and.."

The sound of cold steel slicing through the sterile air cut him off instantly.

Without breaking your seated posture, and without a single shred of hesitation, your right hand had moved in a fluid, unbothered blur. The double-edged knife was now pressed firmly, unyieldingly, right against the center of Satoru Gojo's throat. The sharp, polished tip of the blade was dug just deep enough into his pale skin to cause the fabric of his collar to bunch up.

Gojo froze mid-sentence, his finger hovering inches from your face.

Your expression was a terrifyingly calm, deadpan baseline, your breath steady as you looked him dead in the eye through his lowered sunglasses.

"Step back, Gojo," you said, your voice a quiet promise. "I am already having a monumental waste of a night. If you finish that sentence, I am going to find out exactly how much physical force it takes to sever your throat."

Shoko seemed like she was enjoying this, she simply reached for her lighter, clicked the flame against her cigarette, and let out a long, exhausted sigh. "Don't get blood on the floor, please. I just mopped."

Gojo stared down at the blade resting against his throat. His earlier smile got replaced by an even wider, entirely delighted grin. He raised his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender, slowly stepping back two paces until the knife cleared his skin.

"So hostile!" Gojo laughed, his voice ringing with pure, insufferable amusement as he slouched back against the wall, entirely unbothered by the fact that he had just been an inch away from having his throat slit open. "Just my type."

You flipped the knife in your palm with a practiced, fluid motion, seamlessly sliding the heavy blade back into the hidden sheath beneath your skirt before smoothing down the fabric.

Silence settled over the sterile room, thick with the scent of rubbing alcohol and fresh tobacco smoke.

Your expression remained a terrifying deadpan as you smoothly reached out and snatched the data sheets right out of Shoko's fingers, folding the paperwork neatly and sliding it into the hidden inner pocket of your navy silk dress.

"So we're stuck until we find a workaround," you muttered.

"Pretty much," Shoko said, giving you a quiet, appreciative look. She liked your efficiency. “Yaga already caught wind of the property damage in Kyoto. I suggest you both go to him before he comes here.”

note: does anyone get the douchebag reference art: @/AlmondTofu_boy dividers: @/diviniyae

⋆˚࿔ TAGLIST click to join

He can hear you shuffling around on the other end of the line, and an image blooms in his mind without his permission: you, a hundred miles away, curled up on the couch in your shared penthouse, wearing those tiny pyjama shorts (the ones with the frilly hem, fuck), a cute little Cinnamoroll t-shirt stretched deliciously across your breasts, one leg tucked beneath the other.

He wants those legs around his waist right now, he decides.

You hum in agreement, “I wish I were there, too.”

A wicked little grin ticks up on the corner of his lips, “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And what would you be doing, exactly?” he asks, as the criminal sorcerer beneath him begins to sob.

You giggle, a mischievous little sound that makes his heart trip like a clumsy schoolboy, “Nothing heroic, that’s for sure.”

“Tell me more.”

“Please!” the sorcerer suddenly cries, “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it I know- “

“Are you still fighting right now?” you ask, the tone in your voice significantly less cheeky than before.

Gojo grits his teeth, irritated by the interruption, and relents with a sigh.

“Fights over already. Could’ve done it with my eyes closed, to be honest.”

He hears you shift against the expensive cushions he bought you because you thought they looked “cozy.”

Interesting.

“You are ridiculous,” you playfully scold.

Gojo smiles, a real thing that only ever appears when you’re around.

“I’ve been called worse,” he says, “but at least I’m yours.”

“You are also incredibly corny.”

“And sexy,” Gojo adds, and warmth blooms within him at the sound of your laughter bubbling up.

“I’ll let you go.”

“Please don’t.”

“Satoru.”

“Fine.”

As soon as the line cuts and he hangs up, Gojo’s smile disappears. Slowly, he lowers his gaze to the rogue sorcerer trapped beneath him. The man pales.

“Now…” he begins, “What to do with you?”

***

Gojo would like to say that it took about three minutes for the rogue sorcerer to squeak out the names of his accomplices, but in reality, it may have been shorter.

Either way, he got the results he needed.

He always does.

Now, all he has to do is wait for Megumi, Yuji and Nobara. As their sensei, he should probably check to see how they’re faring. He’s not particularly worried, though – the three of them have faced worse threats than a handful of second-grade curses.

However…

Gojo flops back against the double bed in his hotel room, phone in hand.

Fuck it.

He’s never been concerned about what he should do, anyway.

“Sweetheart,” he says with a smile as soon as you answer.

“Toru,” you reply, “have you finished working now?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“Hmm, I don’t believe you.”

“I would never lie to you.”

A quiet pause settles between you, where something soft and warm and familiar nestles into the space despite the miles separating you.

“I know,” you breathe.

Gojo smiles, real and rare, rising straight from the depths of his heart like a bubble breaking the surface of the sea. He can’t help it. It’s all he ever does now.

Someone once told him that you make him more irresponsible. Gojo has never disagreed more. After all, you’ve made him a better man than the one you found, lost and lonely, wanted only for his strength, his looks, his surname. It was you who scooped him up and chased the chill from his bones, you who filled the gap in his heart he’d long since convinced himself would remain empty.

Not that he’s sentimental.

Obviously.  

(Fuck you. He’s not sentimental, alright?)

Your voice lures him out of his thoughts.

“So, called to continue our conversation?”

“Reading my mind from miles away?” he jokes, resting one arm under his head, “Just another one of your magic tricks.”

You chuckle, “Or you’re just more predictable than you think.”

“Speaking of,” he begins, brushing the tip of his tongue against his canine, “Why did you call earlier?”

He hears you shuffle around again, and his smile turns devilish, sharp at the edges with devious delight.

“I…wanted to see if you were busy,” you hedge, suddenly sounding shy.

God, you’re adorable.

“Oh?” he asks, “And why is that?”

“Because…” you pause for theatrical effect, “I’m awfully lonely here in this big, scary penthouse. So I thought I’d wear something you might like..."

Gojo’s breath stutters, cock stirring. It’s embarrassing how hard you get him, even with the smallest of touches, the softest of whispers, the mere promise of you has him salivating, yearning for a taste.

He sits upright.

“And what’s that, baby?”  

“…Guess.”

He can hear the smirk in your voice.

Temptress.

Ok. He’ll play along.

Your wardrobe flashes through his mind in quick succession, glimpses of the finest lace, the smoothest silk. Stockings and thigh-highs and suspenders. Heels he could spend the rest of his life pressed beneath, stiletto to the chest, what a way to go.

“Something lacy?” he guesses.

“Great work, detective,” you joke, “It is definitely something lacy.”

“The French set I bought you last week?”

“No,” you say, “I want to save that for when you get back.”

God damn. If only he could speed up time.

“Okay,” he says, “So it’s not a set.”

“Not quite.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Oh?”

You pause again, clearly delighting in drawing out his suspense, “I’m only wearing underwear.”

Only wearing underwear.

Gojo’s brain trips over each word, as though a multi-car pileup has suddenly collided somewhere in his synapses.

“Oh, darling,” he drawls, his hand already creeping down south, “Just underwear? You’re not cold?”

“Well, I’m hoping my big, strong husband will warm me up.”

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, palming at his hardening cock, “How big and strong I am? Turns you on, doesn’t it?”

Your breath audibly hitches, “Yeah, baby. Love watchin’ you fight. Makes me so wet.”

Fuck, what he would give to be there right now, watch you spread out against the king-sized bed, legs parting like moonflowers taking their first breath of midnight air.

“Fuck, princess,” he sighs instead. His cock is already hard within his grip.  

“Wait, don’t cheat,” you order, breathlessly, “You have to guess what I’m wearing.”

He can imagine your pout, bottom lip jutting out all innocent and sweet.

“Sorry, baby, I can’t help myself.”

“Toru,” you whine, and he exhales, conceding. He’s never been able to say ‘no’ when it comes to you.

“Just underwear, huh?” he says, trying to think, but he feels as though his mind is swimming through honey. He forces himself to focus, for you. Always for you. “Okay, hmm…the red ones? From Venice?”

“No."

“The pink pair?”

“No.”

“God, darling, you’re killing me here.”

You giggle, delighted, “You can do it, Toru.”

Something in his caveman hindbrain, his lone surviving brain cell in charge of critical thinking, shifts out of ‘horny’ and into gear.

“The black pair,” he says with complete confidence, “The ones with the little bow.”

He hears you shift against the bedsheets, hears the tiny whimper that tapers out into a gentle exhale. He can almost feel the warmth of it against the shell of his ear.

And then, the line cuts out with a click. Seconds later, his phone rings again, this time, a video call from you.

He answers immediately.

What he finds steals the air from his lungs with one big swoop.

You.

You, in all your magnificent beauty, cheeks candy-apple red, eyes lidded, lashes fanning out against your cheeks, bottom lip swollen from where you’ve been biting it.

You’re sprawled out onto your shared bed, completely naked except for the little black pair of panties peeking out from between your legs. You spread, granting him his reward for winning your wicked little game.

His heart pounds.

His throat bobs.

His cock absolutely fucking throbs.

“Well done, baby,” you whisper. He watches the trail of your fingers as they travel between your bare breasts – nipples pebbled, you give them a little squeeze for his benefit – down the flat of your stomach, until they disappear beneath the band of your underwear. You gasp as your fingers move, a hypnotic dance just for him.  

Then, you pull your panties aside, revealing your pussy. She glistens like moonlight catching on dew.

This must have been what sailors felt before they followed sirens to their watery graves, Gojo thinks.

“Satoru,” you whisper his name, touching yourself.

“Damn,” he gasps, unzipping his pants and pulling out his cock, “Wish I could taste you.”

Your lips bend, “Check your duffle bag. Back pocket.”

Surprise flickers through him, brief and bright, before he stretches out with one hand and rolls awkwardly across the bed. He fishes around for his duffel bag, then digs into the back pocket, his fingers catching on the familiar softness of the ‘surprise’ hidden inside.  

He pulls them out, dangles them in front of his eyes. Your panties. They’re the ones he tore off you the night before he left, identical to the ones you’re wearing now.

“Naughty girl,” he chortles darkly, “What a lovely surprise.”

You giggle, chest heaving, “You deserve a treat. Always working so hard.”

Gojo covers them over his nose with one hand and breathes them in. His cock kicks up at your scent; he’s like a goddamn wolf catching the scent of its prey, growling low in his throat.

He angles the camera so you can see the way his fist moves over his cock in slow, steady movements, muttering your name as he squeezes the tip. You moan loudly at the sight, your movements quicken with debauched squelches that have his mouth salivating for a taste.

An idea possesses him. Maintaining eye contact, Gojo stuffs your panties into his mouth and groans at the taste, at the lingering tangerine sweetness. He yearns to be between your legs, making you dissolve into a sugary mess on the tip of his tongue.

Then, he pulls your panties just far enough for you to see the flash of his teeth, “Tastes good, baby.”

Endearing shades of pink rush up your neck and into your cheeks. How sweet. Pretending to be a seductress when you fall apart so easily at the suggestion of his mouth.

Gojo takes your shredded panties and wraps them around his cock, silk against hot flesh. He tilts his head back against the headboard, imagining your velvety cunt, tight walls squeezing around him. The thought spurs him in; his movements become rugged and jerky as he nears his peak.

“Gonna cum soon,” he grits out, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as your fingers slide between your pussy, then back up to your clit.

You whimper, “Me, too…but…”

“But what, sweetheart?”

“I…” a whimper of frustration, “I can’t reach…”

Gojo pauses, crooked grin hooking around his mouth, “Aw,” he coos, with saccharine sympathy, “My poor baby. So used to my fingers, my cock, that her tiny little fingers aren’t quite enough.”

You level a half-hearted glare at him, it only adds to the thrill.

“Looks like you need some help,” he surmises.

You nod, a cute little sob bubbling up from between your lips that makes Satoru’s heart squeeze and his dick ache.

In that precise moment, a decision is made. Probably a bad one, but Gojo doesn’t give a shit, not when it comes to you.

Especially when it comes to you.

***

Your legs are spread. Your pussy is drenched. Your fingers are aching.

And yet, you cannot reach your peak.

Gojo has spoiled you in every sense of the word, imprinted himself upon your body and soul so deeply, you can’t even touch yourself without his help.

You bite down on your bottom lip in frustration.

On your phone screen, Satoru’s lips split into an infuriatingly sexy smirk.

“Looks like you need some help,” he says, and if your mind were clearer, you would notice his tone, the daring edge to it, a decision made before the choice was even raised.

You nod, a desperate sob escaping you. Your baser instincts scream for his touch, his mouth, his cock. But your heart longs for something more than sex alone. You want to crawl into his embrace, curl up in the nest of his lap, face tucked against his neck, and stay there. Bask in his warmth and hear his heart beat against your ear. Shower him with every ounce of affection you possess until there is no doubt left that he is loved, completely, utterly, endlessly.  

The pang of loneliness suddenly vanishes as your video call abruptly ends.

Your brows furrow in confusion.

That is, until a silhouette fills the space in your bedroom doorway, tall and broad-shouldered. You’d recognise it anywhere, even if it’s supposed to be miles away right now.

His name leaves you in a gasp of surprise, “Satoru!”

Satoru stalks toward you in three long strides, and moonlight spills across his face.

You’ve seen that look before.

It never fails to unravel you.

Hungry. The same hunger as a predator claiming his prey. The same hunger as the big bad wolf in old fairy tales. The same hunger as a man ready to devour his sweet, little wife.

Satoru clambers onto the bed, hands pawing at your thighs, spreading them apart and hooking them around his waist. His arms bracket your head, palms against the pillow…and then, quite suddenly, the hunger in his eyes softens as he peers down at you.

The change of pace would have given you whiplash if he hadn’t bent down. Your lips meet.

There's a softness to the kiss, to the way his mouth moves against yours, as though he were trying to spell out ‘I love you’ with only his lips and tongue. It contrasts almost violently with his hunger, tamed into a corner only for a moment, because before you claimed his body, you claimed his soul, and he claimed yours.

He gave meaning to the word ‘soulmate’ long before either of you had ever spoken it aloud.

You know this kiss is the calm before the storm, the almost-apology for the monster that has reared its head from within his ribcage, curled its claws around his ribs, just waiting to climb out and claim you.

You’ve only ever wanted to sate that beast.

But first…

“I love you,” you whisper as he breaks away.

“Fuck I love you, too,” Satoru breathes, nose brushing against your jaw.

Sitting back on his haunches, Satoru lets his hands explore. They slide along the contours of your body; one hand kneading at your breast while the other continues its descent, thumb smoothing over the small knob in your hip bone.

You tremble and moan beneath him; your body is a striking pad, and his touch is the match that will set you ablaze. His hands claim your thighs, holding them apart as he examines your lacy underwear, your inner thighs drenched, the gusset soiled.

“Perfect,” he mutters, his fingers swiping along the fabric. You tremble at the gentlest touch, “They look perfect on you.”

Satoru’s fingers, the same ones that have brought you endless pleasure, brush around the edges of the gusset, as though memorising the structure of the fabric through touch alone.

“Toru,” you plead, “Please...your fingers..."

A small smile blooms across his face, as adoring as it is playful, “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He pulls the damp fabric aside, exposing your pussy to the cool night air. A shiver skitters through you at the chill, but Satoru is quick to remedy that with those deliciously long and exceedingly talented fingers. He gathers your slick with his fingertip, tracing in a slow, circular motion with a tantalising touch.

And then, he presses firmer, one finger easily pushing into your heated core. You moan, legs quivering, hips jerking upwards when his thumb taps on your clit.

“My poor princess,” he coos, “Such a sensitive thing.”

“Toru.”

“Hm, so impatient, sweetheart,” he teases – rather cruelly, you might add – “It seems I’ve spoiled you too much.”

He pauses, the mischief in his expression smoothing into something gentle, “Ah, but I can’t help it. You’re just too beautiful…”

Your mouth hangs open as Satoru’s thumb begins to spiral around your clit, and then he’s easing another finger inside. He leans over you, takes your nipple into his mouth and suckles as though it’ll give him a treat. You squeeze around his fingers as he curls his digits with a slick squelch, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit.

Satoru dots kisses up your sternum, along your collarbone, stringing together a constellation of love bites for you to wear as proudly as prized jewels. Then, his lips meet yours again, drinking your moans. You’re so close, nectar dribbling into his palm and all over the sheets, chest heaving as you scale the familiar, wobbling, tipsy-turvey ladder to heaven.

 And then, he pushes a third finger inside of you, and prods against your sweet spot.

“…And you’re mine.”

You shatter into oblivion.

“Satoru!” you cry, throwing your head back in ecstasy. Golden warmth radiates from your core, spreads like sunlight down your legs and up your arms, wraps around your chest and caresses your heart for a blissful moment.

Satoru watches in awe, mouth slightly agape, captivated by the vision of you. When you finally return to earth, he is right beside you, nose brushing against your jaw.

“My beautiful little wife,” he murmurs into your ear, punctuating the sweet little praise with a kiss. He pulls his fingers away from your gooey cunt, gathers some of your slick like a bear collecting honey, and maintains eye contact as he licks his fingers clean.

“Mmm,” he hums, as though tasting ambrosia, “So sweet on my tongue.”

You watch, slack-jawed, as he crawls back down for seconds. This time, he wants to taste straight from the source.

Satoru peers up at you from between your legs, and for a moment, your heart forgets how to beat. A wide, wolfish grin curls across his face, soft lips parting to reveal a flash of white teeth. His blue eyes gleam like azure lightning beneath a storm-dark sky. This is what ravenous truly looks like: Beautiful. Dangerous. Predatory.  

“Can’t get enough of you, baby.”

And then, he descends, pressing the flat of his tongue against your soaked panties, tugging them between his teeth, playing with them, pulling them aside, biting them like a lion tearing skin from muscle. He’s rough when he dives in, tongue probing inside your heat, as though he were trying to drink from a well deep within you. You moan and gasp and whimper his name, your voice hoarse as your lower belly crackles to life again, fingers flying into his hair, gripping hard enough to draw a groan from the back of his throat.

All it takes is for him to suckle harshly on your clit, and you’re gone, squirting onto his face, legs wrapping around his head, squeezing him in a death hold as you surf the waves of your climax. Vaguely, you recall threads of Satoru’s laughter as he called your legs – and your pussy – ‘The Nutcracker.’

He's not laughing now, though.

Instead, he’s pressing kisses to your pussy, your panties, nibbling along your inner thighs, dragging his tongue across your skin, relishing you as though you were a melting, summer treat.

“You truly are delicious,” he purrs as he emerges, licking his glistening lips.

You reach out for him, stroking your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

“Inside me, Toru,” you whimper, desperate to give him pleasure, “I need you inside me. Want you to feel so good.”

Satoru sits up, pupils blown wide with a heady mix of adoration and lust, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

He’s undressed in the space between blinks, with the sort of speed and enthusiasm that would be deeply concerning if it weren’t so impressively on brand for him. Satoru settles between your legs, hooks them over his shoulders, bending you into a mean mating press.

And then he’s finally, finally sliding home.

Satoru Gojo is huge.

Achingly so.

No matter how many times you’ve made love, you can’t get over the length of him, the girth. It never fails to punch the air from your lungs whenever he sinks into you. But the stretch, the sting of pain, only ever serves to heighten your pleasure.

And when he groans and rolls his hips, you know you’re about to glimpse heaven.

You cling onto his shoulders, freshly manicured nails digging into his muscles, as Satoru sets a fast, rough pace. He rocks his hips, pushing you further up the bed, your breasts jiggling with each movement.

“Fuck,” he curses, “Fuck you feel so good.”

“So do you,” you pant.

Bracing himself on one arm, his fingers reach down to pluck at the waistband of your panties. It snaps against your skin, and you gasp, pussy clenching.

“Like this?” he grunts, “Like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes, Toru!” you cry, “You. Only you make me feel this good!”

Satoru groans and increases his pace, slamming his cock inside of you as you crest higher, so rapidly it makes your head spin and your breath stagger.

“Yeah, yeah, you love being split apart by this cock,” he goads, switching from heavy snaps to a dirty, deep grind, “Love bein’ full of me.”

You hiss, “Yes. Want you to fucking breed me, Toru.”

A wild, animalistic growl loosens from Satoru's throat, hips ramming wildly against you, cock grazing against the side of your panties as he builds up a fast, unrelenting pace. His balls, heavy with cum and glazed with your slick, slam against your ass in a steady slap, slap, slap.

 “Fuck, I’m gon’ fill you to the brim,” he promises through gritted teeth “You’re gon’ be drippin’ with me for days.”

“Please, Toru,” you beg, “Want it so bad. Wanna feel your cum as I touch myself to you.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Satoru curses, more to himself than anything. He angles his thrusts until his cock head bullies the entrance of your cervix, and you scream at the pressure, “Takin’ me so well, gonna give you all my cum, make sure you keep it, right…” He pushes down on the space below your navel, “here.”

Suddenly, the tight coil inside you snaps and writhes like a live wire, sending pleasure jolting through you, pulsing through your arms and legs. Your pussy quivers around him, hugging his cock as the muscles spasm and quake with the force of your climax, squirting onto his thighs.

The sight is Satoru’s undoing. He follows you shortly after, growling pieces of your name as he buries his twitching cock inside of you. Thick, hot ropes of cum burst out of him, pouring into your snug cunt in an endless stream that has you crooning, cunt milking him as you stumble into your fourth orgasm of the night. Shuddering above you, Satoru continues to pump his hips in carnal, animalistic movements, fucking his seed deeper and deeper inside of you.

“Take it, sweetheart. Take it all for me.”

Finally, with a long, satisfied sigh, Satoru collapses on top of you, breathing into your neck. His lips ghost lazily over your skin, pressing lazy kisses as he catches his breath.

You lay together in the aftermath, bathing in post-coital glory, boneless and sated, impossibly warm.

“Fuck, Toru’” you exhale, shakily, resting your hand over his where it sits splayed against your lower belly, “M’ so full of you.”

Satoru untangles himself from your embrace, back straightening. He pulls out of you with a lewd pop, captivated by the way his cum gushes from your gaping hole. His own masterpiece.

Carefully, he slides your soiled panties into place before his cum can drip onto the sheets, tapping them for good measure. You tremble at the sensation, overstimulated nerves screaming in response.

“Don’t waste a drop,” he warns, and there's a devious light to his eyes that makes you wonder if you’ll ever be able to walk properly again.

A/N: I'm not actually sure if Gojo lives at Jujutsu High or not? Maybe other faculty members do, but Gojo can just teleport to work, right? whatever. also, i know gojo would definitely be more of a tease in bed. but perhaps that'll be a different fic.

Suguru moved his hair to one side and released his grip on your hair, bringing his arm up to your neck, locking you in a chokehold. You squealed as he flexed his bicep, your nails dug into the muscle to try and ground yourself.

You could feel every vein of his dick rubbing along your walls, notching that sweet spot so deep inside. He was letting out soft groans of his own in your ear, occasionally whimpering ever so slightly when you squeezed his length.

Your body felt as if it were on fire, the sweltering heat caused his skin to stick to yours every time his hips made contact with your ass. From this angle you could see how tan he had gotten on his arms, and feel just how big he was.

“You feel so good,” he purred into your ear before licking a lewd strip up the side of your neck. You could only moan in response, mind going blank as you felt your high approaching.

Suguru began to fuck into you harder, pressing his fat tip against your sweet spot over and over until you were sobbing into his arm. “Oh fuck — Sugu, please, I’m gonna cum,” you whined, lips attaching to his bicep as you tried to ground yourself.

“Yeah? Ah fuck, bite my bicep, baby. Do it and I’ll let you cum.”

You sunk your teeth into his flesh, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make him grunt and for his rhythm to stutter.

Your slick and his pre coated his length, obscene squelch’s coukd be heard with every thrust. The coil wound tighter in your stomach and you felt your cunt practically pulse as you came around his dick.

The way your pussy convulsed had Suguru hurled into his own orgasm. He moaned languidly, pulling out quickly and allowing white ropes to fall on your ass.

Both of your chests heaved as the two of you came down from your highs. Suguru scooped up some of his come from your ass and held his fingers to your mouth. “It’s like ice cream,” he giggled as you suckled on his digits before doing the same for himself, but this time with your slick.

Before you could even think of an insult a loud shout could be heard from someone in bright yellow.

“Hey! No nudity on the beach!”

a/n: I JUST MADE SOME BSSS (written in like 5 minutes barely any coherent thought applied)